 
## Table of Contents edit to pp 348

Chapter One  
Chapter Two  
Chapter Three  
Chapter Four  
Chapter Five  
Chapter Six  
Chapter Seven  
Chapter Eight  
Chapter Nine  
Chapter Ten  
Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen  
Chapter Fourteen  
Chapter Fifteen  
Chapter Sixteen  
Chapter Seventeen  
Chapter Eighteen  
Chapter Nineteen

Sylvia & Carl

Sylvia wasn't ugly. She wasn't pretty. She wasn't smart. She wasn't stupid. Sylvia was average. Like most of us.

Sylvia just graduated from high school. Some kids were above average, some below, but most were average just like her. She lived in a town neither small nor large. Just a town sort of maybe in-between right about in the middle of America. It wasn't a bad place to live. It wasn't good. Everybody made a fairly average living not so different from everyone else in the USA.

Sylvia was engaged to a young man named Carl. She'd gone steady with Carl all through their junior high and senior years. He was an average guy although sometimes Syliva thought he was more romantically interested in his car. She did love him. It wasn't like fireworks or a romance novel, but he was nice to her and at least pretended to listen when she talked. Could a person expect more than that when everything else they did and said and thought was just about as average as anything?

Only one thing bothered Sylvia, really—that was the size of her breasts. To her, they seemed a little less than average. It must have seemed that way to Carl too because every time the two of them passed a girl on the street with, you know, really big ones, he'd always turn and stare. Still, he was pretty good in most ways except he always wore a baseball cap and had grease under his fingernails. She just wished Carl would stop, you know, staring at those girls with really big ones, which was why the only thing she really prayed to God for was a bigger bra size. The truth was Sylvia's breasts were just about as average as the rest of her. Carl just had an average American male fixation on bigger than average mammary glands. Still, it hurt her feelings.

"Oh well," she would sigh while dressing for a date as she stuffed her brassiere with tissue paper. "You can't have everything," which was a fairly average way to make the best of a less than average situation.

Their wedding was set for June. Like every wedding, it seemed. In fact, it was so hard to get the Elk's club, or a church, or even a church basement that most of the brides and grooms decided on a mass ceremony in the Lincoln High School gym. They would marry, go to work at the plant, have kids, buy modest homes, smoke, eat, possibly drink too much; develop heart disease. Just like their parents. It was a fairly average way to live.

Except the plant closed. They shut it down. It was the heart of the town's economic body so to speak plus an arm or two and a leg. Sylvia heard it from her best friend Lila who heard it from her mom who heard it from her husband who was the second shift foreman in packaging. The plant made little doohickey components of the average American six cylinder car engine. They were moving the plant to some place far away where people would work all day for the price of a sack of fries.

"Why?" the whole town had asked each other in ragged chorus.

"Because you all cost too much, and you're too damned lazy," the town's only newspaper editorialized that night.

"I don't get it, honey," Carl said puzzled from under his car. "Just last year after we voted the Union out and took a pay cut, they said we workers were the best there were. And golly, it's not like they were going broke. Didn't they make seven hundred and eighty million dollars last year before paying a $1.56 in tax?"

"It doesn't seem right, does it?" Sylvia agreed wondering how a person could have a marriage if the husband didn't work and only played with his car all day.

"Gee", said Carl after a longer than average silence, "I guess maybe I'll have to join the Marines."

"But Carl," protested his soon-to-be wife, "there isn't even a war this week."

Well, they went ahead and had their mass wedding in the gym. It was practically the entire graduating class of Abe Lincoln High and all in all a glum affair.

"I do," Sylvia said in unison with a hundred other young women as she tried to look better than average ecstatic in spite of the scratchy tissue she'd stuffed in her brassiere. After the ceremony it was quiet. Kind of hard to feel happy these days especially after the captain of the high school football team had gone and killed himself and his girlfriend, in a drunken fiery car wreck. He'd been depressed because the car dealership he'd stood to inherit from his dad had gone bankrupt a week after the plant closed. In fact, there'd been an abrupt, sharp increase in the number of motor vehicle accidents, fights, wife beatings, and public drunkenness, but that was nothing compared with the forest of "For Sale" signs dotting almost every lawn. Carl kissed her. He wasn't depressed. He'd had this strange gleam in his eye the minute he saw her temporary cleavage created with just a touch of makeup. She smiled squeezing her man's hand. Everything would be fine.

It wasn't. There was no work. Only the bank stayed busy foreclosing on homes, farms, businesses and assorted items of personal property until it too was foreclosed on by some big city bank somewhere. By August almost the entire graduating class of Lincoln High had left. The only place busier than the bank had been the armed forces recruiting offices even without a war that week. Oh well, a body could only hope.

Older graduating classes of Lincoln High didn't have that option. They had mortgages, car payments, furniture, dentist bills and little savings. An entire family would disappear silently in the night and every morning another vacant home would join its neighbors. Whole blocks stood quiet and deserted of children, dogs, and lawn movers, faded 'For Sale' signs fluttering in the breeze like the ghostly pennants of defeated football teams.

Carl got depressed. He'd been fine until they'd rejected him for the Army, the Air Force, the Marines, and even the Coast Guard. Told him there wasn't a war this week, or the next. He took to sitting in his room cleaning his hunting rifle and staring at the floor. Sylvia was worried. She got so desperate she even drug him down to the new Reverend Jimmy franchise off by the side of the rusty old railroad tracks. But it didn't last, the Reverend Jimmy Jr. preacher disappeared one night with the building fund. Heck, even the Safeway closed it's doors.

Enough was enough.

"Come on, Carl," Sylvia said pulling the rifle from her husband's limp hands.

"Huh?" he responded listlessly as she hauled him to his feet. She bumped her head. This room was kind of small for the two of them which is why she still lived with her parents. Heck, they hadn't even consummated their marriage yet, they'd been too broke to afford a motel room for one evening let alone a honeymoon. She looked at Carl feeling queasy in the stomach. He wasn't doing nothing, just staring at speck of dust as it trickled down the wall. Maybe she should have the marriage annulled. But oh no, she'd gotten hitched for better or worse and things couldn't get much worse, could they? She packed Carl's suitcase quickly hoping no one would answer.

"What are you doing, honey?" Carl asked feebly as she pressed the car keys to his palm.

"We're getting out," she said firmly taking one last look up and down the rows of empty staring houses lining both sides of the street.

"But," he protested as she shoved him into the car, "the car hasn't exactly been running too good, and I know I'm out of gas."

"Don't you worry, Carl," she assured him tossing his suitcase into the trunk. "I knew you weren't feeling too well so I had Mike take a look at it."

"You let that Mike touch my ride?" Carl straightened a flame in his eye. Sylvia almost smiled as she secured the trunk lid with a bit of clothesline. It was the first emotion he'd shown in weeks.

"Oh, honey," she soothed pushing him back into the front seat while waving goodbye to his relieved parents. They loved Carl, but lived on Social Security and were happy to see his appetite leave with him. "I know Mike isn't half the mechanic you are—wave , Carl—but you haven't been yourself lately so I thought maybe we ought to go."

"Darn," Carl stomped the pedal pissed. The car jerked down the road belching smoke. "I almost had that carburetor completely fixed and now that Mike's messed it up". Sylvia said nothing as he whipped the Chevy through the empty streets. She was happy they were moving.

Carl, energized by his anger, drove all that night through to morning even though Sylvia had asked him to stop several times so she could pee. She ended up doing her business in an empty coffee can while Carl sped down the road. She didn't suppose it would help any if she repeated Mike's warning not to drive over fifty five and frequently check the oil. Carl was hard on his automobiles she had to admit, which is probably why he did most of his moving on foot. Which was fine back in town. Out here where large fields blurred together monotonously for hundreds of miles, walking could take a while.

After a long, rainy afternoon, the Chevy started to chug, cough, and smoke seriously. Carl yanked it over and threw up the hood. Sylvia put it down.

"Carl, that engine has breathed its last."

"Who says," Carl responded petulantly, "that doggoned Mike?"

As a matter of fact, she responded in silence as Carl burrowed in the trunk.

"Goldarnit, you forgot my tools," he accused.

"You don't have any tools," said his wife who had traded them to Mike for repairs. Look, honey," she said as an old pickup pulled to a stop beside them, "we got a ride." She handed him his suitcase. It rained and rained.

After a few miles Carl snuggled up to her all wet and smelling like an old sock.

"Syl?" he said in a small voice she could barely hear in the wind.

"What?" she yelled.

"I'm sorry I complained," he said looking up at her with his big eyes. "Really, I'm glad to be away. We'll find something. Long hours, high pay."

"You bet," she said giving him an affectionate pat. "Now hush and let me sleep."

Hours later, she awoke all wet and cold. It was still raining. Carl lay all curled up around a suitcase snoring away. Where were they and what direction? And hadn't she seen that same old abandoned gas station over and over again? Sylvia tapped the back window startling the old man who bumped his head on the roof.

"I'm sorry," he apologized profusely turning the truck off the road, "I forgot all about you two."

"Did you know you were driving in circles?" she asked.

"Ain't we all, young lady, ain't we all?"

Sylvia looked down the road as the truck disappeared into the horizon. No doubt if they kept standing there, they'd be seeing him sooner or later. She looked up the way they'd been and every other direction. There was nothing absolutely nothing and it was growing dark fast.

"I'm hungry," Carl said rubbing his belly. She gave him the peanut butter. It was all the food they had.

After it grew dark they sat there on their suitcases, and watched the stars.

"I just thought of something," Carl said suddenly depressed.

"What?"

"That old geezer's got my gun."

"Oh, no," said Sylvia hiding her relief and she leaned over to pat his hand. "Honey, even if you don't have a gun, I still think you're a man." They sat there in the cold and dark. A few cars passed; no one stopped. One carload of drunken teenagers paused only to hurl empty beer cans and obscenities before racing off.

"Who do they think they are?" Sylvia angrily demanded as the moon slipped from behind the clouds. No one answered. She could just barely see Carl's thin, dark, sag-shouldered frame stumbling toward a small copse of trees. "Carl?" she called. Silence. "Darn you," she yelled picking up both suitcases. He was certainly the modest type having to walk all that way to pee. Well, she wasn't going to sit her all alone. What if those kids returned?

It was hard walking in the field. She tripped on the dark furrows and lost one shoe. "Carl!" she called, "I can't carry two suitcases in the dark wearing one shoe. Honey?" But he was hidden by the trees.

She threw down both suitcases and had a seat. The rain stopped, but the moon had slipped away. She was wet, cold, and her husband had disappeared into the world's smallest forest. And she wasn't following. Not for better or worse and certainly not until she could see. Sylvia sat there, her head in her arms, listening to the wind stir the leaves. A salt tear trickled down the side of her nose to her lips. She fell gradually to sleep dreaming fitfully of tigers riding bicycles for some reason.

TWO
The sun rose early beating down on Sylvia's stiff neck. A distant truck loaded with squealing pigs bound for slaughter downshifted thunderously. Rising stiffly, she brushed dried mud off her dress. There was still no sign of Carl.. A bird twittered on a cottonwood branch. Was it making fun of her?

"Oh, shut up," she grouched. It did. Immediately she felt sorry. Wasn't the bird's fault Carl was weird. Peering into the world's smallest forest, she was hesitant to enter. What if her man was dead? "Honey," she asked the mass of rustling leaves, "you in there?" No answer.

Sitting back on her suitcase, Sylvia watched the yellow sun bake the moisture out of the hard earth. Her stomach growled. Poor Carl. There he was stuck in the middle of some trees, maybe dead or hurt and she was too chicken to go see. She imagined his funeral. Her standing there all dressed up weeping with maybe just a little cotton stuffed in her brassiere. Suddenly that thought annoyed her. Who was he to be always dissatisfied with her bust size? And who made him perfect anyway? They wouldn't be in this mess if he'd had a decent job.

Instantly she regretted her mean thought. God knows they didn't shut down the plant and kill the whole town off just to inconvenience her.

"Those creeps!" she said out loud angrily. How could they do that, label all the workers worthless and lazy? How would those bosses feel if everyone came right out and said they were crooked and greedy and did nothing but play golf? It was true. Everyone knew it. You just didn't discuss some things where some boss could hear you. "Oh, God, I'm sorry," she prayed apologizing realizing she was polluting her soul with bad thoughts. Hadn't the Reverend Jimmy always said they should trust their betters who were appointed by the Lord and do what they were told?

"Well, I wonder," she blurted aloud once more remembering how that Jimmy Junior preacher had stole the church building fund and run off with the under-aged teenage daughter of the choir director. But there she was again thinking bad thoughts. She knelt down and prayed.

"Dear God, I'm sorry, I'm just a little bitter, that's all. I'm sure they had a wonderful reason for taking our jobs away. Could you make my husband happy and find him a job? Or," she added quietly, "at least increase my bra size?" She squashed a mosquito that had landed on her arm leaving a spot of bright red blood. "I just bet you were rich," she said. "Probably had other mosquitoes working for you and paid them peanuts." She smiled, in a much better mood. The bird started singing again. Deciding it was high time, for better or worse, to find her husband, Syl plunged into the world's smallest forest.

Mosquitoes buzzed her head like little owners in airplanes, her skirt got tangled in the twigs, and her nylons, well, why mention it? Where was that man of hers?

Reaching the top of a slight rise she stumbled into a hollow circled by boulders. Wood smoke trickled from a crackling fire. Something tasty smelling was roasting over a nice bed of glowing coals. "Carl?" she said involuntarily salivating. "Honey, are you there? What's bothering you? You know, I prayed to God, I think he increased my bra size a little. Wouldn't you like to look?"

But only the breeze rustling shiny green cottonwood leaves disturbed the peace. Still, whatever the heck was sizzling away on the fire sure looked good. Sylvia edged closer keeping a cautious eye out for anything unexpected and helped herself to what looked like the leg of a chicken or some kind of funny duck. Someone suddenly giggled. Gasping, she looked straight up. Was that her husband sitting on a tree branch? And where were his clothes?

"Honey?" she asked choking down a mouthful of roasted meat. He giggled bouncing up and down. Well, she shrugged, his body was still kicking but it seemed that his mind had gone. Oh well, there was no use getting excited about the situation until after a nice hot meal.

"Ow!" Carl yelped.

"Oh, honey," she asked through a full mouth, "you okay?"

"I got my testicles snagged in this tree."

"Oh, my," she clucked sympathetically, "I guess that's why God invented underwear." Carl managed to disentangle his manhood and jumped heavily to the ground.

"Did you know I got Indian blood?" he announced rubbing his sore feet. They stung a little from the jump.

"Uh, no, Carl, I sure didn't. Oh, honey," she said wincing too. "Don't those owners—I mean—mosquitoes bite you in the worst places?"

"Nothing bothers us Indians," he said attempting to squat. He fell over on his butt. Sylvia blushed to see his manhood dangling in the dust looking like a dead snake. "Hey" Carl asked, "how'd you like that puppy dog?"

"Puppy?" she retched.

"Nice fat one. Woke up this morning, little sucker was licking my fingers."

"Puppy?" she repeated getting woozily to her feet.

"Tasty, huh? It's a delicacy to us, Indians," he informed her as he proudly helped himself to a front leg.

Sylvia watched uneasily as Carl, his skinny little thing dragging in the dirt, munched away. This must be one of those worse parts of their marriage again. Still, she had to admit the puppy was tasty and she hated for good food to go to waste.

"Good, huh?" Carl smiled through greasy lips as she squatted in the dust.

"Mmm," Syl agreed pretending it was just chicken.

"It's better than dirt," Carl said. "I tried some last night. Mud wasn't so bad, but that dry stuff kept sticking in my throat."

"Carl?" she asked wanting to talk about something besides food.

"Yeah?"

"You're not going to walk around like that are you?"

"Like what?"

"Like jay-bird naked?"

"Us Indians like naked."

"But Carl," she responded plaintively, "people will talk."

"That's right," he grinned. "They'll say there goes that bare-ass Indian. Anyways, it don't matter what they say because us Indian's are invisible--at least to white folks."

"I see you," Sylvia remarked.

"That just proves you're an Indian." He paused to swallow. "We'll build a teepee, hunt buffalo. It'll be fun. Beats looking for some job they'll just pick up and move to Taiwan."

"Hmm," she replied gazing up at the bright blue sky. Poor Carl. It must have been the strain of being unemployed. Some drank, got depressed; got religion. Carl got to be an Indian and eat puppy dog. He took her hair in his hand.

"What are you doing?!" she cried backing off.

"Just checking. An Indian ought to have black hair but I guess brown is close enough."

"At least it isn't kinky and red like yours," she observed a little miffed.

"Won't be kinky. I'm gonna have it permed."

"Where, at some Indian beauty parlor?" she asked unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

"Hey, us Indians got everything those white folks got and more." He suddenly whooped loudly. Sylvia jumped to her feet.

"Carl!" she started angrily. He held up his palm for silence.

"Speak when you're spoken to, Squaw. This brave has got a little communing to do with the Great Spirit." He rose, shook his kinky red mane, and turning on his heel with great dignity slipped into the brush.

Sylvia raised an arm to her head to brush off an owner. She noticed she was somewhat aromatic.

"Hey Chief!" she called out, "there any way for us Indians to take a bath?"

"Huh?" Carl grunted.

"Ask your Great Spirit where's the shower?"

"Great Spirit's on hold for now; I'm pooping."

"Oh," said his wife catching a whiff. That man of hers could spend hours in a bathroom. She got up to look for water.

Carl joined her some time later at the edge of the trees. Heat shimmered off the dry fields.

"We got any toilet paper?" he asked.

"Now what's an Indian need with toilet paper?" she couldn't help but smile. Carl didn't smile back.

"I suppose I could use a leaf," he allowed scrubbing himself vigorously with the nearest leaves at hand, a fistful of poison oak. Moments later he commenced an interesting variation of the war dance.

"So now what?" Sylvia asked from her perch on the suitcase after he calmed down.

"Now what, what?" Carl replied testily. Lacking ointment, he had soothed himself with the last of the peanut butter; only now he couldn't sit for the ants.

"Now what, next?" she continued patiently.

"I don't know," he groused. "Why you asking me?"

"Cause you're the Chief Indian."

"I am?"

"Well, I suppose I could be Chief."

"No way," he snapped. "You're a woman."

"Hey, women can be Chiefs. You ever heard of Pocohontas?"

"Poco who?" asked Carl. History had never been his strong suit.

"You don't know Pocohontas?" she retorted scornfully. "Some Indian; didn't you see the cartoon?"

"Okay, okay," admitted the embarrassed Carl. "You can be Chief too."

"Equal Chiefs?" she asked cautiously.

"Oh, I guess," he fumed. "But you got to start acting like an Indian."

"I ate that puppy dog."

"That's nothing. Anyone can eat puppy. Now you got to take off your clothes."

"Take off my what?" she said after a pause.

"You heard. All Chiefs got be bare-ass naked just like me."

"Indians wear clothes. Pocohontas wore a buckskin dress."

"That's right, buckskin," he said triumphantly. "No raggedy nylons, no skirts made out of polyester, nothing like that. So until you wear what a real Indian would wear seems only fair you wear nothing." Her heart sank, she felt ill.

"Couldn't I at least wear my underwear?"

"Did Pocohontas wear a brassiere?" he smirked.

Well, he had her there, she cursed silently slipping off her clothes. Wasn't that just like a man? Equality meant acting just as stupid and crazy as they did.

"You lied," he accused as her breasts dangled free from her old brassiere. "You told me they got bigger."

"I said I prayed," she shot back. "Besides, no real Indian reads Playboy."

"What's Playboy got to do with it? I bet that Pocohontas has hooters the size of--"

"Now that's enough right now!" she blazed. "I'm a Chief too. From now on there's not gonna be one more word about the size of my boobs." Carl's face reddened, ashamed. It suddenly occurred to him she might not be totally satisfied with the size of his body parts as he snuck a look down at his crotch.

"Well, I hope you're happy," she said stretching her naked body in the sunlight as mosquitoes moved in for the kill.

"Got any make up?" Carl wanted to know.

"What for?" she asked swatting bugs.

"War paint. We got to go on a raid. Puppies don't grow on trees."

"We gonna find us a puppy herd?" she asked sarcastically; then wished she hadn't. Goldarn, she was mean.

"A puppy herd?" Carl looked at her like she was mentally retarded. "There ain't no such thing. We got to find us a pet shop." She sighed and gave him her handbag. What was the use arguing?

Sylvia sat in the shade of a cottonwood over an hour slapping mosquitoes as Carl carefully applied his Max Factor war paint. She could see that with him what was Indian and wasn't would have a lot to do with convenience.

"Carl?"

"What?" he responded trying to get the eyeliner just right.

"I'm getting awful thirsty."

"Uh, huh," he agreed.

"We need water?"

"Can't you see I'm busy? You go look."

"You want me to look for water dressed like this?"

"You look great."

"I'm naked. Why, some white man or something could see me like this and get all sexually excited."

"He does, I'll take his scalp."

"A lot of good that would do me."

"Hey, it'd do you plenty. I'd take his scalp, we'd kidnap his woman. She could help with all that women's work."

"Women's work?" she asked not liking the sound of that.

"Uh huh," he replied not taking his eyes from the mirror. "You know, getting water, cooking food, raising the kids. You want to do all that yourself?"

"So what are you gonna be doing during all this? Working on Indian cars?"

"Indians don't have cars. It's a shame, I know it, but that's the truth," he admitted. "Of course a smart Indian could always invent one. I don't know," he continued in a dreamy tone. "I guess I'll spend most of my time raiding farmers and taking scalps."

"Sounds like fun. For you. Me and the slaves working while you're out goofing off."

"Are you kidding?" he asked outraged. "Sneaking up on farmers is hard work. You think it's so easy, you try it."

"That's a deal. You do all that women's work, and I'll find the puppy dogs."

"But I can't even cook," he wailed turning around.

"You can't put on makeup either," she said stifling a giggle at the sight of him, "but you could learn."

"I don't look fearsome?" he asked looking as if he'd been dipped in a vat of finger paint.

"No, if you want to know the truth," she replied slapping a mosquito. She was in no mood to coddle his male ego.

"Well, it's too late now," he said a trifle disappointed. He squatted, grabbed a huge rock, and, grunting deeply, lifted it up.

"What are you doing?

"We're going puppy hunting." He staggered off.

"You'll give yourself a hernia."

"You got any better ideas for fighting farmers?"

"You won't have to fight. Some farmer sees you like that, he's gonna laugh himself to death."

"Laugh?" Carl repeated dropping the rock. He stood there shoulders sagging. Sylvia softened. Poor thing, even if he did look a sight, it wasn't his fault he'd lost his mind.

"Oh honey, I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm so mean."

"Maybe it's your time of the month?" he asked looking forlorn.

"Yeah, I'm having a time, all right," she agreed looking out over the low, dry hills. "I guess I'm just mad. It isn't your fault." She planted a kiss on his painted cheek. "It's just...well, anyways, you looked darned fearsome and any farmer sees you, why he's gonna have a heart attack he'll be so scared."

"You think?" Carl said brightening up.

"I would," she said. It wasn't too far from the truth.

"Let's go then," said her suddenly excited husband taking off at a quick trot over the burning fields. Seconds later he was hipping and hopping back to the world's smallest forest.

"Ouch, that's hot dirt."

"I guess we need us some moccasins," added Sylvia.

"Doggone it all," Carl complained, "I was already to do some serious scalping. Hey, what're you doing?!" Sylvia was pulling on her clothes.

"Carl, it's fine being an Indian and all but until you get me some Indian clothes, this Indian's wearing these. Anyways, plenty of Indians wear cowboy hats and blue jeans. I've seen it on TV."

"They're not real Indians," he protested.

"Carl," she gave him a look, "you want to tell them that?" She finished dressing while Carl sat pouting in the shade. Finally, he got up and disappeared in the bushes coming back with his pants and shoes.

"I'm not wearing a shirt and that's final."

"Suit yourself."

"At least you could put some paint on your face. That's not too much to ask."

"I don't think women wear war paint," she told him.

"Hey, you want to be an equal chief, you got to wear the paint," he demanded.

"Okay, okay," she said with resignation streaking her face with lipstick without even looking in the mirror.

"Hey, all right," said her admiring husband. "Those farmers are gonna scream with fear."

"Goodie," she sighed.

"Man it's hot," Carl gasped after about a mile. "Let's go back to the trees." He turned to look back at the world's smallest forest. All around them stretched dry fields, the shimmering highway and distant hazy hills.

"We need water," Sylvia reminded him.

"We'll dig a well."

"Let's just find us a farmer." She resumed walking.

"I wonder where they all are?" asked Carl as they staggered over the hard furrows.

"Probably sitting inside their air conditioned farm houses having a nice cool coke."

"You think?" Carl croaked. "I guess we could have us a cool coke before we burn down their house. Hey, what's that?" A ways off ahead of them dust boiled off the dry fields.

"Just our luck, a tornado," said his wife not feeling too hopeful right now. Carl stared a good long while.

"Hey, Syl," he finally said, "I think that's a farmer." Sure enough, right in the middle of that boiling dust was four big rubber tires and a farmer sitting high in his air conditioned tractor cab. Carl let out a war whoop and ran.

"Let's get him!" he yelled. "We'll take his scalp, his wife and every can of coke he's got!" Sylvia ran too not sure what else to do. They ran and ran but the farmer in his tractor was going fast. The boil of dust got smaller and smaller until it all but disappeared.

"We got him now, Syl," Carl gasped slowing to a walk, "let's move in for the kill. Syl?" He stopped, turning. Sylvia had already slowed to a walk a few hundred yards back. "Doggone it, woman, he's gonna get away."

"Carl, he's already gone. Why don't we raid us a Mom and Pop? At least they stay put."

"Fine!" Carl stomped raising little boils of dust. "You find us one, we'll raid it. Some Indian." He threw himself down in the dirt. "I wish I were dead!" Sylvia waited gasping in the white hot sun. Carl got to his feet. It was those goldarned ants going after that peanut butter again.

They kept walking, getting drier, more depressed. Carl stopped. He was watching something far off.

"What's that?" he asked.

Sylvia looked up from where she was watching her feet shuffle through the dust. A smile stretched across her parched face. Tall hoops of metal wheeled slowly across the fields connected by a long black pipe. Irrigation equipment. She ran flailing her arms.

"Water, Carl, water!" she yelled. Carl was instantly on his guard.

"Careful, Syl," he cried after her in a cracked voice. "It could be some sneaky farmer trick!" Paying no attention, she ran and ran, only water on her mind until she reached the pipes. With her feet sploching up and down in the wet mud, she was gasping and sucking and carrying on so you'd have thought she was having sex. Syl drank and sipped and slathered tearing off all her clothes wallowing in the black soup like an undersized albino water buffalo. Water, water, wet cool delicious water cooling her baked skin, bringing back her voice. She felt green and growing like some tropical plant her toes planted deep in the steaming, verdant mud.

Carl wouldn't run. He barely walked. Once he realized that strange contraption of the white man wasn't dangerous, he preferred to take the calm, dignified Indian approach treading slowly after the tall aluminum hoops as they rolled majestically across the fields. Sure he was thirsty, just as thirsty as Sylvia but this Brave had an image to preserve.

"Carl, Honey, come on, it's great!" Sylvia yelled all wet, and happy; slathered in black glistening mud. Women, Carl snorted mentally in superior distaste. They couldn't take it when the buffalo chips hit the fan. Sure was clear to him who was the better Indian.

A few hundred feet off, he continued to walk with the stateliness and dignity of a great chief.

A yellow pickup rumbled up a side road from the east. A farm worker jumped out wearing a straw hat and lugging a big wrench. Carl froze instantly crouching to blend in with the field. A treacherous sneak attack by the white man! The worker strode quickly to a roadside tangle of pipes and started cranking away. Foolish white men, Carl chortled slyly to himself. Capturing their puppies would be so easy. A smile slowly creased his pink face.

The water went off with a loud squeak, the great metal hoops rolling to a halt. The paleface jumped back in his yellow pickup and flew off down the road boiling dust with the music up loud.

"Hurry, Carl, hurry!" hollered Syl as the nice cool irrigated dirt sizzled under the white sun. "Run!" she screamed as mud caked instantly to her skin flaking to the steaming earth. Carl stared forgetting his stateliness, dignity, and image. Now he was just some poor dried up sucker who hadn't had a sip in years. He ran, running for all he was worth, which wasn't much since he was seriously out of shape.

"Water," he gasped, "water," he plead to his wife's anxious face. All around them dust boiled, the mud cracked and popped. There was not a sip of water to be had except an inch of rapidly evaporating H2O Sylvia held in her cupped palms.

"I saved you this," she practically apologized. Carl slurped desperately like a camel in the desert slopping half of it down his front. Falling to the dirt, he rolled around over and over wailing.

"I'm gonna take his scalp!" Sylvia did feel sympathetic. Still, if he hadn't been acting the big shot Indian, he wouldn't have such a bad case of cotton mouth. Carl sprang to his feet and took off.

"Now what?" called his wife thinking he'd really lost it this time.

"The pipes. That's where it is. All we could want." Carl yelled as he ran, tripped, fell and crawled his way to the tall glistening shut-off valve sparkling in the midday sun. He attacked, whacked, wrestled, cursed, and threatened the valve, but what he really needed was a pipe wrench.

"Honey?" Sylvia asked as Carl worked a large nut over with his teeth.

"Arghmnphmm?"

"Your dentist is not gonna like you for that."

Carl stared up at her with wild eyes.

"I got to have water," he said releasing the bolt.

"I know that, honey."

"I'm dying of thirst."

"Carl, you see here? There's a teeny tiny little drip. Maybe if you just turn over on your back with your mouth open you'll get what you need."

"Gee, Syl, you think?"

Well, it took all that day and the rest of the night but drip by agonizingly slow drip Carl got himself a drink. Meanwhile, Sylvia more than familiarized herself with the landscape. She looked north, she looked south, she looked east, she looked west, and then she looked north again. Far off on the highway the occasional truck grumbled by now and again.

"Carl?" Syl asked after sunset. It was now pleasantly cool and dark. "You get enough to drink?"

"No," he replied emphatically with his mouth wide open staring at the drip. He didn't want to miss a drop.

"I guess then maybe we'll spend the night?" Carl made a gulping noise. Sylvia watched stars twinkle in the cloudless sky. "You know what I think?" she asked as one more drop of water plopped into Carl's open mouth, "I think we'd have a lot more fun being cowboys. We could live outside, sure, but instead of running around naked getting bit in the worst places we'd wear flannel shirts and jeans. And we'd ride horses, Carl. We wouldn't have to walk all day!" Her talk grew excited. "Heck, honey, we could be outlaws if we wanted, you know, like Jesse James, or Billy the Kid? That way we could still rob farmers but we wouldn't, you know, have to steal their puppy dogs—just their jewelry, right, and cold hard cash. We could buy us a car then, or a bus ticket and instead of walking around out here dying of thirst, we could be sitting in some air conditioned bus sipping cokes and reading motorcycle magazines. Doesn't that sound great?" She sat there waiting for an answer, but then Carl snored as the occasional drip of water caused him to choke and sputter as it plopped down his open throat.

Sylvia awoke to the blare of country music. The yellow pickup skidded to a stop. Peering cautiously out of the ditch she saw the worker lurch drunkenly from the cab. Unzipping, he relieved his bladder all over her snoring man.

"Do you mind!?" she jumped up madder than hell. "Can't a person get some sleep?

"Help" squeaked the farmhand at this apparition from the ditch as he pinched his penis with his zipper. He ran yelping for his truck.

"Some people," Sylvia said disdainfully examining her snoring husband. Unemployed, crazy, and getting peed on. Carl couldn't win.

The morning sun spread out over the horizon like a big fried egg. Sylvia awoke, rubbed her mouth, her stomach growling. She'd been having a dream about pancakes smothered in peanut butter and butterscotch syrup—her favorite. A little bird perched on the pipe next to her and let off a sharp trill of complaint. What was that awful smell? With a wince, she remembered what'd happened to Carl last night. She and the bird moved upwind.

"Boy, sleeping in the dirt is no treat," Syl said making little conversation with the bird as she rubbed her stiff back. The bird hopped from the pipe to Carl's head. Looking up at her, it trilled angrily peeved Carl was hogging the drip all to himself.

"Oh be nice to him," she groused flicking a pebble its way. "I bet nobody peed on you recently." The bird cocked its head at that and pecked a bit of water that had settled in Carl's ear. Carl stirred moaning something about spark plugs. Syl got up to look around.

It grew hot quickly. To the north, south, east, and west, heat shimmered from the ground. Syl was so hungry her stomach lost the energy to growl. Food, she had to find food. Following the dirt lane to the highway, she searched the ground hoping to find something—a candy bar, maybe an old apple. At this point even puppy dog looked good.

Walking pensively, she considered the future and her husband, the Indian. Heck, he couldn't get a job sane. Now who would hire him? She looked over the fields uneasily. It was hot now, hotter than hot, but what about when winter came? Would they live like Eskimos in a snow drift, and what the heck would they eat?

From where the dirt lane intersected the highway, she looked up the road and down hoping to spot a Mom and Pop—for all the good that would do them. They were broke. Everything they owned was sitting in a couple of suitcases in the middle of the world's smallest forest. The bird joined her tweeting and hopping a little ways from her feet. Sylvia eyed it hungrily. The bird seemed to realize this and hopped a little farther keeping a wary eye on her.

It was the bird that first spotted the half-eaten bag of Korny Kurls chirping angrily at Syl to keep back. Syl was just able to snatch the bag before the bird could carry it off in its little beak.

"I was going to share," Sylvia said wiping a bit of bird shit from her hair. In revenge for the aerial bombing, she ate everything only relenting at the last Korny Kurl. The bird wolfed it down.

After that, they worked as a team. The bird flying ahead scouting for likely garbage, and Sylvia opening the bags. Still, what they found would hardly satisfy a bird's appetite, let alone Sylvia. Eventually it fluttered off.

Sylvia sighed. Hot, tired, filthy, thirsty, she was the lowest she'd ever been. Even her little feathered friend had gone. When the next tractor trailer came barreling down out of the low hills, something snapped inside. Weeping, yelling, laughing, screaming, she ran. A truck, a truck with a real live person driving who could save her from dying all alone in the middle of nowhere with birds picking her bones and her crazy Indian man. She thrust out her chest, primped, considered undressing—anything, anything to get out of here.

Half a mile up, moving fast, Peg spotted something. Was she suffering highway hallucinations or was that some painted woman shouting and screaming on the side of the road?

"One more crazy," Peg murmured once she was sure she was seeing what she was seeing intending to pass on by. And pass on by is what she would have done but Sylvia ran right to the center line. Peg stomped the brakes about dying from the adrenaline blast but managed to stop her rig. Angrily, she yanked her air horn. It echoed off the hills. "What the hell do you think you're doing!?" she yanked open her window and yelled. Syl stopped undulating and thrusting. The trucker was female? Bursting into tears, Syl leaped for the door. Peg rolled up her window.

"Please," Sylvia begged, wailed and wept. "I'm dirty, I smell, I'm hungry, I'm thirsty—Won't you let me in?"

Peg tapped the window pointing to a little sign that said: "No Riders,"

"Please, please, please, pretty please?" Syl begged pressing her face against the glass.

Shaking her head, Peg looked the other way cursing silently. Couldn't people read simple English?

"I could just ride out here," Syl said pitifully clinging to the door handle.

"Suit yourself," Peg yelled trying her best to look mean. Maybe if she drove a couple of miles this nut would get tired and get off. Peg put it in gear. Sagging in relief, Syl almost lost her grip on the mirror as the rig picked up speed. Feet half-dangling from the running board, half-blinded by the wind, she was leaving. Ah, life was good.

Inexplicably, the rig slowed down again. Syl opened her eyes.

Running down the center line, his skinny chest heaving, was Carl waving a rock over his head. Sylvia winced at the sight of him. Did she look that bad?

"I assume you know this guy?" Peg asked dryly out her window cracked down just a quarter inch.

"Huh?" Syl asked.

"It looks like the two of you belong to the same tribe....of Dingalings," she added under her breath.

"No, it's a lie!" Syl suddenly screamed. "I'm not an Indian. Drive," she begged.

"You let my woman go!!" Carl screeched in a high pitched voice threatening to bounce a boulder off the front of the truck.

"Tell Big Chief you're okay," Peg said struggling to keep a straight face.

"Carl, you go away," Syl yelled kicking out at him and almost falling off the rig "I'm just going to a Mom and Pop," she lied. "I'll buy you a coke and a motorcycle magazine."

"You're not being raped and tortured?" Carl asked looking slightly put out.

"She's just dandy," Peg informed him. "So get off the road."

"I'm going too," Carl blurted making a dash for the door.

"There's no room," Syl insisted kicking out at him.

"Let me on," Carl insisted grabbing for the mirror.

"What's your Indian friends gonna think?"

"I don't care," he sobbed clutching at the door.

"I don't have time for this crap," Peg said fearing for her mirror. Throwing open her door, she got her first good whiff of Carl. "Oh no, you want a ride, fine," she snapped striding to the rear. She threw open the back doors of the trailer. "Both of you in here."

"You won't forget us?" Syl wondered staring into the dark maw of the trailer stacked with dusty sacks.

"You've got to be kidding," Peg almost laughed shutting the doors. She got back in the rig.

THREE
Life was weird sometimes, Peg realized as she bombed on down the road. Things happened. Like those two oddballs sitting back with the bat guano. Things happened, big things, small things. All of it a big surprise. Her job a case in point. She hadn't planned to be a trucker, oh no. Hadn't planned on Hub either, and he'd been just about the biggest surprise of her life.

Hub, that is, ex-hub, had been the driver in the family when they'd first married. He was a looker too, reminded a person of Elvis; thick black hair, small butt, sort of a beer belly and a pair of pale blue eyes you could practically slip on they were so flat and smooth. He'd been a talker too, knew all the lines, and of course he could play a few chords on the guitar. In high school all the girls were crazy for him, always following him around, giggling; flirting shamelessly. Some of the best looking, most popular girls had been hot after his jockey shorts; even hanging around the freight yards where he worked after school. It was even reputed he was having an affair with the French teacher, and it went without saying you don't get a beer belly at that age without putting away some beer.

Hub's Daddy died in a trucking accident during Hub's senior year. His mom used the insurance money to pay her mortgage off and buy Hub his very own rig. He dropped out of school three months shy of graduation and started driving his Kenworth for a living.

Peg met him in a bar a year and a half after. She was out with friends after work. She'd seen him sitting there sipping a cold one slowly smoking a cigarette. He looked lonely and she wanted to say hi, but she wasn't the kind of looker he'd ever been interested in. So you can imagine how surprised she was when five minutes later he tapped her shoulder and asked to dance.

After getting over the initial shock, stuttering, and turning red, Peg got up figuring he was just killing time until something better turned up, but he kept dancing with her nice and slow and real close even if the music was fast. Better looking girls than her came in the bar, all of them giving her the green eye. They danced and danced her feeling stupid finally, him barely moving as his small erection poked her between the thighs. When the bar closed, he let her go looking deep into her eyes

"I want to get married," he told her. Peg smiled and agreed putting it down to the beer. You can imagine how surprised she was when he showed up at her mom's house the next day with a bouquet of red roses and a diamond ring.

Well, mom did drop her dentures, and Peg would have if she'd had the dentures to drop. Hub took her out; showed her his shiny black rig. They made love in the back bunk of the cab. He asked her to marry him once again. She'd told him no still thinking he was toying with her, but when he started to drive off, a cigarette hanging from that mysterious smile of his, she ran for the running board, in love.

Peg smiled remembering herself clinging to this very rig now dented and rusted. Seemed this rusty old Kenworth had seen its share of desperate women yelling and begging for mercy from the vision of a lonely, uneventful life.

But the smile faded as she remembered the honeymoon. What honeymoon? Hub disappeared right after the ceremony to deliver freight. Later he decided he didn't like her job claiming the pay was too small for the work. She told him she liked the job because the hours were flexible, and she could go to night school. Hub didn't like night school either. No woman should have a better education than her husband even though she already did. It took only a kiss or two to convince Peg. She quit the job and night school, and went to work full time checking groceries at the local Buy n' Bag.

Peg worked long hours and hard. Hub was always encouraging her to work overtime. When he was around, that is.

"But why do we need all this money?" she'd asked once after making love. She was hoping to have a baby.

"You think I want to be a trucker all my life?" he asked less cool than normal as he opened a fresh beer. Peg was surprised. She knew a trucker made a good living. She assumed he was satisfied. Well, maybe he wasn't. Ambition was no crime.

"So what do you want?" she asked.

"I got investments," he smiled mysteriously ending all further inquiries with a kiss.

Hub was not only investing for himself, he was investing for her too. Every two weeks without fail after payday he was waiting for her check outside the Buy 'n Bag door.

"Honey, I know you got investments but--" she would try to say but he ended all further questions with a sexy look, a kiss, and a roll in the hay. By the time she'd come to her senses again, Hub was gone and so was her two weeks pay.

Hub took care of all the money matters. He'd take her money and dole her out a little bit for the groceries. The rent, the bills, all that he claimed to take care of himself only after about nine months or so she found herself eating rice and beans a lot and sponging off her mother for meals. Of course, when she mentioned it to him, he'd only kiss her and joke about how a woman who worked in a grocery store ought to be able to bring some of them groceries home for free, and they'd make love again, and by the time she came to, once more he'd disappeared.

That was all manageable. Eating less was good for her figure but then all these people started calling the house

sending threatening letters. She would tell Hub, and he wouldn't even kiss her anymore; just left the house claiming he had to discuss "business" with his friends. He came home less and less often, too, making longer road trips. Once he was gone a whole month not even coming home to get her paycheck so she used the money to pay off some outstanding bills. He showed up the next day, asked for the money. When she told him what she'd done, he hauled off and slapped her a couple times; then stormed out of the house. She followed weeping and carrying on still in love, certain he was leaving her forever, and swearing not ever to pay a bill. Hub had climbed into his rig and lay slumped over the wheel snoring, the cab filled with the fumes of beer.

That evening Peg finally came to terms with his drinking problem. There'd been lots of hints. Heck, she might as well have been hit with a two by four across the head, but there's none so blind as those in love and lust. She went through his things finding overdue notices, final notices, notices of foreclosure, and god knows what else. Hub hadn't hardly paid a bill since they were married and there were plenty bills unpaid pre-marriage too.

Where had all the money gone she agonized until finding the records of his bar bills always paid in full. Not only paid but dated to show he'd been in town drinking when she thought he'd been on the road.

When Hub finally crawled out of his truck with a terrible hangover, she confronted him with all she knew.

"You're an alcoholic," she told him.

"And you're ugly," he sneered which was a goldarned lie, but Peg didn't have much confidence at the time. "I couldn't have sex with you without getting drunk."

"You need help," she insisted.

"Get off my fucking back," he snarled turning to leave. He fell flat on his face.

Things got worse. When he was home usually looking for her paycheck which she refused to give, he only yelled and screamed and tried to beat her up. After landing up in the hospital once or twice, she got pretty good at defending herself with a baseball bat. His road trips got fewer and fewer as his drinking got more and more out of control. He got busted by the state police one night driving a load drunk because he was desperate for beer money. They suspended his license, the company fired him, but somewhere he must have had a stash because the drinking never stopped.

Peg worked harder and harder to pay the bills. She worked seven days a week all the overtime she could eat to pay off the bank, the trailer rent, the electricity; the gas. Her health suffered, she had constant headaches, and if she ever saw Hub after weeks at a time, he hadn't come home for laughs.

"You've got to slow down, Peg," her Doctor said kindly as she wrote her out a prescription for more pills. Peg took the prescription cringing at the bill. With Hub out of work, they'd lost all their medical.

That night it rained as she walked the four miles home, her car repossessed months before. You can imagine how surprised she was to find a shiny new Cadillac sitting in front blocking her way to the door.

"Hi," said Hub coming out the door grinning widely. He was missing some teeth

"Going somewhere?" she asked hopefully seeing the suitcase.

"Come on in," he offered politely, "there's someone I want you to meet." Syl walked around the Caddy grabbing her baseball bat. She entered. The place reeked like a bar. Sitting on Peg's tattered sprung couch was a blond woman in a fur coat wearing too many rings on her fingers and several inches of makeup. In trembling hands she held a tall glass completely full of straight Johnny Walker Red.

"You remember Debbie Ellen Scott, dontcha?" Hub slurred as he staggered and sat.

"Debbie Ellen Scott?" Peg repeated jaw hanging. Debbie Ellen from school? Debbie Ellen the cheerleader whose Daddy owned the Cadillac dealership, local society's creme d' la creme? And what was Debbie Ellen doing drunk on her ass in their trailer? Peg pulled up a chair.

Hub told her the whole sad story punctuated with lots of tears. He and Debbie Ellen had been in love but her parents refused to let her marry some no-account trucker from the wrong side of town. So the two of them turned to drink.

"If you loved her so much why'd you marry me?" Peg asked a little perplexed when he finally finished weeping into his drink.

"Well, I had to make it look good, didn't I?" Hub said giving her his vacant blue-eyed smile.

"Hey, I got married too," Debbie drooled, "even had a couple kids. But we're through with that crap, we lied too long. We're getting' out of this burg." She staggered to her feet supported by Hub and drained the last few ounces of her drink. Peg helped her down the stairs with a good push. Hub caught his eye in Peg's fist.

"And don't come back!" she yelled as Debbie Ellen drove the brand new Caddy through her white picket fence and lurched off out of Peg's life for good.

And that was that. Except for Hub's big dusty black rig in the front yard the tires all gone flat and a stack of unpaid bills. Peg continued on still working at the market developing a good case of varicose veins. One day, as she rested her aching dogs in the break room, she came across an interesting ad:

**LEARN TO DRIVE THE BIG RIGS. EARN BIG MONEY**

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully reading the ad again and again. If you drive don't you get to sit? Heck, she had that rig parked out in the front yard which she'd forgotten all about till now. Must be 'cause it was black and she seldom got off work till after dark. "Well, why the heck not?" Peg filled out the ad and sent it in. Six weeks later she was gone to Oklahoma and truck driving school off to earn that big money.

Peg did well. She learned how to shift gears smooth as silk without grinding the metal. She learned the best way to execute a turn in a crowded city, and she learned how to back a fifty foot trailer up to a loading bay without taking all day. Sure, there was only her and one other woman in a class full of men but the two of them graduated in the top ten and did darned well at the end-of-term driving rodeo where they'd placed.

"Where's my job?" Peg asked Big Billy Buttons, Associate Dean of the School of Driving. Every student had been guaranteed a job on graduation. By her side was her buddy, Jane. Dean Buttons wiped a little tobacco juice off his chin and picked up a couple of envelopes. Peg ripped hers open.

"Fairbanks, Alaska?" she read. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Buttons shook his head quickly. None of them joked with Peg especially after she had demonstrated her skill with a baseball bat on a couple of recalcitrant men.

"Need drivers. Requested our top graduates. That does include you two young ladies."

"But it's cold and dark and..." Jane sputtered into tears. Buttons grinned hoping they'd turn it down. Baseball bats aside, he never did cotton to women truck drivers.

"Hey, you ladies survive the Haul Road, why you can write your ticket anywhere. This is your big chance."

"Yeah, right," said Peg shoving the envelope in her jeans and taking the weeping Jane by the arm. They used trucks in Alaska? She thought they had dog teams. Well, trucks meant they must have roads.

It was still dark at ten a.m. when the jet touched down at Fairbanks International Airport.

"You sure it isn't night?" Peg questioned the stewardess who was pulling on a down filled parka. Outside it was still pitch black. The man behind her muttered to his wife that it was twenty degrees below zero this morning—unseasonably warm for this time of year. They had to drag Jane off the plane.

Ol' Buttons hadn't lied, Peg smiled remembering her experiences hauling freight from Fairbanks to the giant oil fields at Prudhoe Bay. In three short years she experienced just about every awful road condition known to woman except maybe a hurricane. There were blizzards, whiteouts, floods, raging grizzlies and herds of thousands of Caribou. She'd hit moose, porcupines, rabbits, other truckers and the occasional lost tourist. Heck, once she'd almost crashed into a small plane that had made an emergency landing on the highway in the middle of a snowstorm.

But she made money. Tons of it. Good union wages, twelve hours a day, seven days a week with only a couple days off the whole three years. It was a modern day gold rush. A chance for a common working stiff to make good. And good she did.

Jane, sadly, died in an avalanche on the Anatuvik Pass. She'd been hauling a load of pipe. The day Peg heard of her friend's death, she decided she had enough.

"No use both of us getting killed there," Peg had told Jane's parents at the funeral in Florida. "At least she'll be warm now." Heads nodded in agreement.

Peg got home to a trailer she owned outright. She had Hub's old rig rebuilt, repainted with a new set of tires, and a fancy new sleeping compartment complete with waterbed. And it wasn't hard finding work either. Dean Buttons hadn't lied. Once they'd heard she drove the infamously famous Alaskan Haul Road, beady-eyed dispatchers lit up with instant respect. Experienced truckers with twenty years driving would stand when she entered the break room and respectfully remove their baseball caps. Oh yes, those first few years driving had been very good. She'd even put her boyfriend through college, but they broke up after he started to work and insisted she quit driving to stay home. Peg refused. It was all just too much fun and she liked her financial independence.

It got less fun damned fast. They deregulated the trucking industry. Good for the owners who made lots of money. Bad for the drivers who worked a whole lot harder for less dough. Union outfits went bankrupt and a whole lot of nonunion outfits—with the same owners and drivers—sprang up in their place. Peg spent more and more time working harder and harder. It got difficult to properly maintain the rig. Now and then she even wondered if she'd made a mistake not staying home to be a baby machine.

Yeah, life had changed. Changed for everyone, she realized slipping back to the present and an uncomfortably high reading on her temperature gauge. She hoped it was merely a faulty needle like the last time but she'd been driving thirty seven hours straight at top speed without a stop and some long overdue scheduled maintenance—and all for a load of bat guano for god's sake. She was barely going to make her fuel bill let alone get this baby some badly needed attention at a shop. Hell, with the money she got from this job, she'd be lucky to afford a burger and a searing cup of chicory at McDoogie's. That and the way the contract worked, if she was more than five minutes late of the agreed-on delivery time, she'd have to pay them! There was a sudden sharp pain in her stomach. Chugging some anti-acid, she kept driving.

Peg was just cresting the next rise when the engine banged loudly, the gauge dropped to zero followed by a horrible din.

"Shit!" she yelled. Setting the brakes, she leaped from the truck. Something was burning and steam sizzled from under the hood. "Oh, man" she moaned feeling dizzy and weak. She didn't even want to look. Angrily, she kicked a tire; then sat slumped on the running board to consider her dismal fate.

After two minutes of dismal fate consideration, which was all her schedule would allow, Peg was searching the airwaves for a good, honest, but cheap local mechanic. Several called back quickly and she took the low bid. In less than fifteen minutes, the mechanic was at the rig, hooked up, and ready to tow her off.

"What about my load?" Peg asked.

"I can't tow them both," he replied knowing she was taking a chance leaving the trailer on the open road.

"Could you come back?" she asked.

"I'd have to charge for an extra tow."

Peg looked at the man, then the trailer. She was just too broke; she'd have to chance it. "Let's go."

So the trailer sat there stuffed to the gills with bat guano and two sleeping passengers Peg had totally forgot. No sooner had the tow truck rounded the bend with the crippled tractor, then another tractor appeared, beat up and nondescript. In less than two seconds it was hooked up to the Peg's trailer and traveling the other way. Sylvia woke for a moment when they left the highway for a rutted back road. She fell right back to sleep.

FOUR
Ollie looked up at the old man sitting beside him who was singing a bible hymn.

"So where we selling this one, Grandpa?" The old man spat a load of tobacco juice all over the side window forgetting it was rolled up.

"Depends what it is."

Ollie nodded knowingly. He hoped it was a load of computer games. He loved computer games although Grandpa would never let him play any unless they invented one about Jesus and the Apostles or something slaughtering devils and blowing up abortion clinics. Still he snuck the occasional game in anyway; usually while Grandpa was negotiating a price for a stolen load, or sleeping off an overdose of "cough medicine". That's how the two of them made a living—hijacking. They'd just sit around listening to the CB waiting for news of a breakdown. They did okay at it too, only cost them fuel and the occasional payment to the state police.

"You do your daily bible reading yet?" the old man asked him wiping down the window with his lengthy yellowed beard. Ollie thrashed around the cab looking for the bible they'd liberated from a motel. "And don't go looking for the dirty parts," warned the old man who was wise to the boy.

"Yes, sir," mumbled Ollie thumbing for the dirty parts anyway. After all, Grandpa was half blind. Heck, he wouldn't even be driving except that Ollie was always scanning the highway in between the references to David and his collection of hunky little whores of Babylon. "Grandpa?" he asked the old man who was ingesting a handful of little blue pills.

"Ain't I told you not to interrupt while I'm taking my medicine?" barked the old man swinging wildly at Ollie who dodged the blow as the rig swerved

"I was just wondering where you were gonna sell this thing," Ollie whined eyes glittering with hatred.

"None of your business," growled the old man washing down the pills with a stale beer.

"We ain't going to that dentist again?"

"What if we are?"

"He never gives us any real money," whined Ollie who was hankering for a roll of quarters.

"He gives us what we need, boy."

"You mean that paper sack? I don't even know what you got in there," lied the boy. He knew perfectly well the bag was full of drugs. "What is in that bag anyways?" he asked baiting the old man. But Grandpa ignored him as the pills took effect. Pretty soon Gramps was practically yelling that bible hymn as he stomped his feet on the floor.

"Grandpa!" shouted Ollie as the rig lurched back and forth. "Grandpa!" Ollie was determined to get some quarters. He reached over and yanked on the air brake.

The rig and trailer jackknifed in the middle of the dirt road. Grandpa looked up pissed as hell grabbing his tire iron.

"Ain't I told you never to interrupt me when I'm communing with the Lord?"

"But Grandpa," stammered Ollie, "I was communing with the Lord too."

"Like hell!" roared the old demon. "You were yanking yer peter again. I swore I'd chop it off."

"Grandpa, no, I had a vision!" screamed Ollie in real fear. The old man lowered his tire iron.

"A vision?" he inquired respectfully his voice dark and low.

"Yes, Grandpa," Ollie continued in that sort of hurried breathless tone they always used on those radio shows when bullshitting the suckers, that is, sheep. "A vision. Why, I was just sitting here praying on this druggist 'cause since you like him so much, why I naturally assumed he was a good, god-fearing, bible-reading man and..." He let his voice trail away mysteriously.

"Get the hell on with it," roared the old man eagerly.

"And then the strangest thing happened," Ollie continued. "I was just praying and praying away and then there was this angel in my left ear."

"What kind of angel?" demanded Grandpa because he held long conversations with the angels quite frequently.

"I think he was that angel you're always going on about, what's his name, OralBob?"

"OralBob? OralBob talked to you, boy? What'd he have to say?"

Ollie turned to the window smirking. Grandpa was had by his short hairs this time. Now just to reel him in.

"Well, it was real hard to understand, Grandpa. I'm not sure what he meant," Ollie said uncertainly.

"Don't you worry, tell me his exact words. I'm the expert on Angel talk."

No kidding, thought the boy. That and pink elephants after little blue pills and beer.

"Okay, here goes," Ollie went on breathlessly, "and this is it exactly because how could anyone ever forget the words of the Archangel OralBob?"

"Archangel?, he's made Archangel now?" the old man rubbed his hands in glee. "Oh, OralBob, I knew you'd be sitting at the right hand of the lord some day. Not like that underhanded little prick, Gabriel, oh, no, damned angel's no better than a communist. How the good lord could see fit to..." The old man drifted off into an incoherent stream of babble for several moments.

Ollie paused a little shaken. Grandpa was visibly deteriorating. He'd best be careful if he didn't want a Sunday meeting with the business end of that tire iron.

"Yes, and the angel," he interrupted loudly getting the old man's attention. "I mean the archangel said unto me: "Forsooth and bewail, young Ollie those evil men who wear the offal of the beast of the sea!'" He stopped now breathing hard because he had shouted the whole thing. Since Ollie had started smoking, he'd been losing his wind.

"That's it?" asked the old man who could listen to this kind of crap without a break for days.

"Well," said Ollie feeling damned smug, "I did smell something."

"What!?" the old man leaned over smelling strongly of hops.

"I smelled this perfume," whispered Ollie.

"Perfume?" repeated the old man, bug-eyed.

"Uh huh," Ollie whispered even lower.

"What kind of perfume?" the old man demanded grabbing Ollie by the collar.

"Wait, Grandpa, wait, let me pray on it," the boy insisted trying hard not to giggle. Closing his eyes, he mumbled "Jesus" three or four times, and twitched.

"What's he say, what's he say?" hissed the old man, his gnarled old claws twisting Ollie's shirt.

"It's the druggist! That's it!" the boy shouted trying his level best to look like a shiny-faced young Republican. "It's his aftershave." Gramps sighed at that and laid right over the steering wheel. Ollie was surprised.

"Goldarnit, OralBob," whispered the old man deeply tired, "I prayed on that man. You said he was a good Christian crook!" Slowly he turned to Ollie, "You're not lying to me, are you boy?

Ollie knew it was very important not to say one little word. Twitching some body parts, his expression remained smooth and saintly. Suddenly the old man raised the tire iron. Clenching his rectum, Ollie hummed a little something from one of Grandpa's favorite psalms.

"I guess maybe you are telling the truth," the old man admitted grudgingly after a taut pause.

"It was an angel, I swear," Ollie smiled beatifically as if he had just had sex with his left hand. "Look he left a feather from his wings."

Grandpa stared. Sure enough there was a piece of down sticking through the boy's shirt. Grandpa squealed, jumped out of the truck, and prayed to beat the band. Despite his aching shoulder, Ollie felt a surge of satisfaction. That druggist was history. Picking the holy relic from his shirt, he felt a deep gratitude for his smelly old down sleeping bag the first time in his life. Out in the road, Grandpa moaned and carried on as he beat his head with his bible and jumped up and down.

Sylvia was first to wake from a deep, dreamless sleep. The inside of the trailer was lit a ghostly white from a dirty skylight in the ceiling. Phew, what a smell! It smelled so bad, she couldn't even smell Carl and she knew he stank. Her snoring husband lay there all covered in white dust looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy after a long stretch short of dough.

Life was strange. A few short months ago, everything was fairly average. Now they were speeding off to who knows where. Only they weren't speeding, she realized. And that noise? Sounded like a cow in heat and someone whacking the side of a tire. Suddenly, the cab door slammed. The trailer lurched off with a jerk.

"So what you boys got for me today?" asked the unsmiling, sweating obese druggist wearing mirrored sunglasses and several pounds of gold chain. The air reeked of his cheap musk cologne. Grandpa turned to look at Ollie. Ollie sniffed the air meekly ducking his head.

"You're sure this is what the Archangel OralBob let you smell?"

"Swear to God, Gramps," said the boy cleverly waving the bit of down back and forth like a skilled hypnotist. The druggist just shook his head and turned to open the back doors of the trailer. He was used to this kind of craziness from his more religious suppliers.

"An angel of the Lord come unto the boy here and bewailed you're smelling like the beast from the sea," Grandpa announced loudly.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," muttered the Druggist, his mind on the trailer. Suddenly he felt the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun jabbing into his left kidney. He sweated even more profusely. "An angel of the Lord you say?"

"Plug him, Gramps," Ollie urged the old man eagerly.

"Now hold on," the Druggist sweated as he slowly turned. "I know all sorts of angels. Why, I'm a god fearing man."

"You better be feared, you lying, cheating, low-life son of a snake," Ollie hissed his little boy's face twisted with good Christian hate. "Shoot him, Gramps, shoot him. Remember OralBob!"

Well, the old man was remembering the angel of the lord all right, but he was also thinking about that monkey clinging to his back screaming for a sack of pills.

"Now look," dripped the Druggist shrinking visibly, "if there's some problem with the brand of cologne I'm wearing, hell, I'll change it."

"Kill him, kill him, kill him" sang Ollie doing a gleeful little dance. The old man's fingers trembled on the trigger finger. Drat, these damned angels. Why couldn't he have found all this out after he'd got his fix?

"You can't kill me," begged the shriveled pharmacist sweat puddling at his feet, "who else is gonna supply you your barbiturates and speed at such a good price?"

"What's a bar, barbit?" asked Ollie unable to pronounce the word.

"Jest never you mind boy," ordered the old man flicking his tongue over dry lips. Uppers, downers and a vengeful Jesus were the pillars of his life. "Look," he unsteadily explained to the Druggist, "it's not like I want to shoot you. But you jest can't ignore a heavenly phone call from OralBob!"

"No, no, no, indeed you can't," agreed the Druggist emphatically, his rate of shrinkage slowing visibly. Ollie suddenly stopped his dance. Something was going wrong even though Grandpa had cocked back both triggers of his double barreled shotgun.

"A man's got to be one with the Lord," Ollie fervently proclaimed.

"Now, look," howled the Druggist for his life, "if the Lord says shoot me, why you got to shoot me, but I'm an elder of the Church of Reverend Jimmy and a damned good Republican besides. At least give me a chance to defend myself, you know, pray a little on the matter? Maybe the boy here didn't exactly get the message right." He glanced down at Ollie wishing he'd given the little bastard quarters last time he asked. "What exactly did the angel say, son?"

"He said to rip out your heart!" Ollie screeched righteously.

"Now boy," said the old man his fingers clutching Ollie like that monkey was clutching him, "tell him exactly what the angel said."

"Forsooth, and bewail," Ollie repeated, "those evil men who wear the offal of the beast of the sea. And that's when I smelled your crappy aftershave," he added. "You couldn't get a better message from the lord than that." The Druggist nodded gravely watching the old man. Slowly, he got down on his knees.

"Let us pray."

"Gramps already done enough praying for ten men," said Ollie trying to grab the gun. "It's time to do the will of the Lord."

"Back off," snapped the old man smacking his grandson into the nearest wall. "A body can never do enough praying." He joined the Druggist on the ground.

"Oh Lord," the Druggist began loudly, "tell us what it is you want of us your faithful servants, show us once again this divine angel who for some mysterious reason has chosen to reveal himself only to this young, inexperienced boy, and not those who have supported you, and been named elders of the Church of Reverend Jimmy and given ten thousand dollars to the temple building fund, which, I might add, is much more than the contribution of some young overzealous, but well-meaning younger person." He cast his eye significantly towards Ollie and continued. "Please Lord, enlighten us and show us how we have strayed from the true path, and oh, yes, perhaps you prefer a different brand of men's cologne?"

"Oh god," began Ollie still a little woozy from the wall, "I know I'm not always perfect, but I am better than certain people who wear gold chains and sweat a lot. And didn't Reverend Jimmy himself say that it was easier for a rich man who paid a million to get into heaven than some cheapskate and his lousy ten grand?"

"It's a hell of a lot more than you gave!" the Druggist hotly accused.

"Oh, yeah, well he didn't give you no angel feather," Ollie shot back.

"Angel feather?" said the Druggist. "What angel feather?"

"I don't have to show it to the likes of you."

"Show him that feather," ordered Gramps smacking Ollie into the wall once more. Ollie got shakily to his feet clutching the piece of down.

"Let me touch it," said the Druggist reaching out.

"It's my angel feather, get your own," screeched Ollie yanking it away, but too late. The Druggist had touched the holy relic; then threw himself to the dirt foaming and shaking like a seriously overweight but rabid dog.

Ollie's heart sank. It was clear this sucker had an expert routine. "Yagga bibba luda walla walla," Ollie yelled throwing himself into a load of crates. The druggist ripped off his gold chains. Ollie turned somersaults. The druggist countered bellowing the Ten Commandments backwards. Ollie sang the Pledge of Allegiance standing on his head. The Druggist whipped himself with his mirrored glasses. Ollie got down on all fours and chewed on a tire. All the while Grandpa watched the two of them through rheumy hollowed eyes trying to determine which performance was most clearly OralBob inspired.

"Four percent!" yelled the Druggist. "Four percent more sayeth the Lord on this shipment and all will be forgiven."

"Ten!" howled Ollie hanging by his heels from the loading dock his mouth half-full of chewed newspaper.

"Five," sobbed the Druggist hopping up and down on his knees.

"Nine" Ollie prayed furiously dropping from the ceiling to his head.

"Six!" screamed the Druggist scarfing dirt.

"Seven!!" gasped Ollie tightening a cord around his neck. The old man let loose with a shotgun blast. He had a beatific smile on his face.

"Seven it is, sayeth the Lord," gasped the Druggist wiping mud off his lips. The kid was wearing him out. Clutching the side of the stolen trailer, he pulled himself up. "That was some good praying," he said holding out his hand in admiration. Ollie looked at him suspiciously until he realized the Druggist was slipping him a hundred bucks.

"OralBob is satisfied," the boy grinned sprinting quickly for the nearest video parlor.

"Quite a young man, that young man," remarked the Druggist as Ollie left.

"To hell with the little son of a bitch," croaked his grandfather. "Gimme my drugs."

"Let's see what you've got for me," smiled the Druggist rapidly regaining bulk as he swung open the trailer doors.

"What in God's name is going on out here?" Sylvia asked all covered in white guano dust. Carl rubbed his eyes.

"Angels of the Lord," exclaimed Grandpa falling to his knees as the Druggist fainted.

"Where's Peg?" Syl asked.

"Holy words," muttered Grandpa searching feverishly for paper and pen.

"Where's Peg?" asked Sylvia again. "What have you done with her?"

"Where's Peg?" the old man scribbled furiously. "What have you done with her?"

"Boy, I sure could use a hamburger," added Carl.

"Boy, I sure could use a hamburger," wrote the old man.

"Have you lost your mind?" Sylvia inquired.

"Have you lost your mind?" the old man repeated recording every word. Sylvia shrugged helplessly. Clearly Peg had gone and left them at the local mental asylum. Could they blame her? She jumped down off the trailer.

"And the angel of the Lord stepped down out of the trailer," continued the old man. Carl winced.

"Boy, I sure got to take a pee."

"Boy, I sure got to take a pee."

Sylvia and Carl turned the corner down the alley. Except for Grandpa back there shouting and carrying on, it seemed unnaturally quiet in the little burg.

"Where's all the dogs?" Carl remarked somewhat disappointed.

"I sure could use a shower and a shampoo," Sylvia added wistfully.

"Mmmm," said Carl sniffing the air, "I can smell a MacDoogie's." The greasy smell of fresh cooked french fries wafted through the air.

"I suppose I could wash up in the women's restroom," Sylvia admitted.

"Hot dog," Carl grinned following his nose.

Unfortunately, Carl's nose led him all over town because it reeked of fast food for blocks.

"I see it!" Carl announced finally spotting the famous MacDoogies's pyramid through the fast food smog. Sylvia grabbed his arm.

"Jeez, honey," she whispered, "I forgot we're broke."

"That's no problem, Syl" Carl assured her. "You've seen their commercials, all happy, and smiling. They'll feed folks in need."

"You think?" responded his uncertain wife. They went in.

"I ought to take your scalp!" Carl threatened angrily as he and Sylvia were forced out the door by a squad of security Dougie MacDoogies wielding automatic weapons and pepper spray. Shells spattered the pavement as Carl and Sylvia scurried for the corner.

"Darn those creepy clowns," Sylvia wept from the protection of a dumpster as the Dougies raced by in poor order clown shoes slapping the ground.

"Yeah," munched Carl angrily, "see if I ever buy another french fry from them."

"What are you eating?" Syl asked.

"French fries. Dumpter's full of 'em." MacDoogie's wouldn't give them a single free overcooked macdougie, but their dumpster was stuffed with unsold food. "It's the mother lode," chortled Carl cramming his mouth full of french fries that minutes ago went for a dollar eighty five the half ounce. The alley was soon silent but for the sound of munch, munch, munch.

Syl woke with an awful gut ache at dawn.

"Oh," she groaned. Her stomach was having a terrible time digesting french fries fried in recycled motor oil. Crawling out of the dumpster, she could see Carl was sleeping off his MacDoogie's hangover in the tall grass. Whew, was that stink her? Somehow she had to get a bath. She walked cautiously keeping to the shadows

Other than a Sheriff's cruiser weaving from curb to curb, the little town was dead quiet. No dogs, no cars being started, no lit early morning kitchen or bathroom windows full of sleepyheads getting ready for work. Instead, the streets were lined with rows and rows of homes with faded "For Sale" signs planted in grass so deep you'd think the prairie had come back.

"It's just like home," Sylvia said thinking for just a moment they'd circled back somehow. But they hadn't. It wasn't the same place. The north/south streets were numbered 1, 2, 3 instead of A,B,C—which was funny because the house standing right in front of her was the spitting image of the home she'd grown up in. She strolled carefully up the front walk. Sure enough, there was a key under the front mat. She unlocked the door and went in.

Inside was dark and musty. Food had molded to the plates. "Anybody home?" she asked.

Syl stepped out of the shower teeth chattering, her skin slightly blue. The heat was off but the water was still on, luckily. She was cold but clean. Inspecting her naked body in the mirror, she could see she'd lost some weight in the breast department. Well, God help that Carl if he even squeaked.

Investigating the bedrooms, she soon realized that the lady of the house was of the large economy size. Reluctantly, she dressed back in her dirty clothes and took a peek in the garage.

A car sat in the dark silence with two people in the front seat; one fat the other awful thin. "Oh, jeez," she cried in surprise, "I thought you folks had left. Don't you ever clean your house? And what in the world are you doing sitting out here?"

She stepped forward tripping over a vacuum hose running from the tailpipe to the window. The fat woman's mouth gaped wide open but she, her husband and the Pomeranian were dead. Syl ran through the empty streets.

"Breakfast is served," said Carl greeting her with a fresh new load of recently deposited garbage.

"Carl, we got to get out of here," gasped his wife.

"You kidding?" he responded incredulously. "Right after I found us the mother of all french fries?"

Although weeping hysterically, Syl realized Carl had a point. They might as well fatten up while they had the chance even if it was MacDoogie's. But they were leaving once she was able to take up the slack in her brassiere. Why had those people killed themselves she asked herself over and over again? Was every town a graveyard of fluttering 'for sale' signs, its population on the move like a vast unemployed herd?

Carl watched his wife as she sat in the long grass breaking into frequent spells of tears. She wouldn't even eat the fried chicken macdougiettes, her favorite, and he was worried.

"You folks like some condiments with that?" Carl jumped. It was the ancient employee who kept staggering out from MacDoogie's hour after hour dragging barrels of steaming unsold food. He was carrying a tray of cokes. "Hey," smiled the old man smearing the grease on his thick glasses with his shirttail. "You got nothing to worry about from me. All of us working stiffs hate those Dougie McDoogie SOBs—always smacking you with their rubber french fries. Heck those clowns couldn't catch a rubber chicken."

"Thanks," grinned Carl helping himself to a coke. "So how come you keep throwing out all this food?" Benny smiled leaning against the garbage can.

"Why not? Nobody to eat."

"So why they cook it?" Carl asked.

"It's a money laundering operation," Benny explained. "Boss drags in big sacks of money, the clerks ring it up pretending there's customers, and I break my back hauling it all to the dumpster for about half the minimum wage."

"Any openings?" Carl asked. Benny laughed and shook his head.

Well, sitting around eating french fries was the life, but Carl decided what he really needed was a job. Kissing his wife goodbye, he took off.

After walking block after block of overgrown lawns surrounding dark, abandoned looking little ranch houses, he had to admit things looked slow. Still a person could make a fortune here mowing lawns if he could just find someone home to pay him. Finally, he spotted one old woman rocking back and forth on her porch.

"Hey, Lady, want me to tune your car?" Carl cried bounding up the stairs before she could scuttle away. "I'm a handyman of sorts," he admitted after a short pause. "Got anything you want fixed? She just stood there frozen with fear. "I work cheap," he finally added thinking her silence a bargaining ploy. "Real cheap," he repeated in case she hadn't heard. The old woman started weeping. After all, she was deaf and Carl did look a sight his face still smeared with makeup and reeking of bat guano. "Hey, Lady, don't cry. Heck, I guess I could work for free. Where's that lawn mover anyway?" Bounding off the porch, he found an old push mover rusting in the weeds and got to work. After hours of sweating, grunting, and groaning, Carl had her grassy savannah looking like a golf course. Smiling, the old woman offered him a pitcher of lemonade. Carl drank and winced. She had mistaken the sugar for salt and insisted he drink the whole thing. "See ya!" Carl waved cheerily creeping into the bushes to puke. He passed several more elders rocking on their porches in the midst of unmoved lawns. They all waved him over enthusiastically for lemonade.

"Sorry, folks," Carl smiled and walked on.

Taking a short cut through the parking lot of a decrepit motor inn, he passed the town's last prostitute loading her car.

"Hey sailor, want a date?" she asked.

"Sorry, ma'am, I couldn't eat another bite after that lemonade," Carl refused politely. She stared at him. "Hey, nice ride," Carl said admiring the hot pink upholstery of her ancient caddy.

"It's yours for the price of a blow job."

"Is that a lot?" Carl asked. He hadn't a clue what blow job meant.

"Not in this burg," she said in disgust getting in the car. She pointed to a couple of stuffed trash bags sitting by the curb. "You want any of those old hussy costumes, they're yours."

"Gee, thanks!" Carl cried out as she hit the gas sending out clouds of burning oil. Carl grabbed both bags and headed home.

Back at what temporarily passed for the ranch, Syl was still sitting in the grass staring at the empty sky.

"Hey, look what I got," Carl announced holding up a feather boa and a cardinal's mitre. She said nothing only stared. Carl racked his brains for a way to cheer her up realizing she must be depressed. Maybe if she tried on this. "Hey, Syl, check this out." He held up a Shirley Temple dress that was especially popular with the American Legionnaires. Syl sort of glanced up but she didn't seem interested.

"Hey, Syl, look," he requested after a few minutes. "Syl!" he finally screamed. She sort of jolted awake and looked. Carl was balanced on the top of a fire hydrant wearing rabbit ears, a nurse's cap and football pads.

"Funny, huh?" Carl smiled after she had rolled around laughing hysterically in the grass a good twenty minutes.

"Thanks, honey," she finally said rising weakly. "I was ready to end it all. You kind of put it in a new perspective." She got up to rummage through the bag. "This is pretty," she said picking out a full-length red satin evening dress.

"Hey, you'd look good in that," remarked Carl.

"You think?" she asked skeptically. "Not too fancy for someone who eats out of a garbage can?"

"Here's a nurse's uniform. Hey, you could work in a hospital."

"I don't think just a uniform's enough," she remarked picking up the Shirley Temple outfit. She tried it on.

"What do you think?" Syl asked stepping out from behind the dumpster.

"Seems fine to me," Carl said grinning. He was staring down her front.

"It seems a little low cut," she said looking down. "Oh well, I guess it's better than football pants. I'm gonna go take a walk."

"Don't drink any lemonade," Carl yelled.

It was late—the sun was smeared across the sky like a runny-looking fried egg. Not a dog barked, not an engine rumbled and not one kid was getting into trouble. Sylvia stepped out onto Main Street hoping nobody would recognize her from before. No problem. The street was completely deserted. Store windows stood vacant or soaped over with trash nestled in the dusty corners. Even MacDoogies was closed for the evening. Passing a vacant window, Syl noticed an extremely tall little girl in a very low-cut dress. Syl smiled. The girl smiled back. She waved. The wave was returned.

"Hey, wait a minute," Syl said in surprise, "that's me." She nodded. Her reflection nodded in agreement. No wonder Carl was staring at her so funny. Now she had cleavage, and wasn't this dress a little short? Embarrassed, she looked to see if anyone was watching, but the streets were still deserted. She walked on.

"Hot stuff," wheezed a voice from the dark just as she stepped off the curb. Syl jumped a foot.

"Who's there?" she hissed cautiously unable to see anyone.

"Hot stuff," wheezed the voice again. Her eyes searched the weeds. Under a pile of yellowed newspapers, a bum lay all curled up shivering with fever.

"Are you okay?"

"Hot stuff," he wheezed again eyes glittering like broken glass.

"Would you like me to find you a doctor?"

"I am the doctor," he wheezed again.

"Isn't there anyone else?"

"No one, nothing," the sick man gasped.

"I do have a nurse's uniform. Would that help?"

"Forget it, Honey. I'm finished. Final stages of tuberculosis. Practice safe sex." He launched into a bloody coughing fit; then fell unconsciousness.

Horrified, she covered him in newspaper and hurried off for help. In the distance something howled. Was that a wolf? The moon was full. Turning the corner, she saw a faint yellow light and the sound of country music leaking out from under the door of the American Legion Hall. Parked outside was a long low sky blue Cadillac and a handful of battered pickups. She went in.

In the murk, several old men wearing baseball caps sat at the bar. They silently drank their beers.

"Hey, over here," called a familiar voice. She turned. It was the Druggist out celebrating his near brush with death at the hands of those crazy hijackers and damned ghosts. He was waving a twenty dollar bill.

"Can I help you?" Sylvia asked.

"Yeah, get over here and drain my hose," he ordered.

"Oh, JB, you're such a card," giggled his wife giving him a touch on the nose.

"There's a man who needs help out there," said Sylvia.

"Hey, I need help too," grinned JB.

"And JB's willing to pay for the privilege," said his wife. "So get yourself under that table and open wide."

"He's a doctor," Sylvia insisted. "He says he's dying of tuberculosis."

"Hey, Willard," JB called out to the bartender. "Call the Sheriff. It's that damned doctor complaining again. I want him taken care of."

"Thanks so much," smiled Sylvia gratefully backing off.

"So about that blow job?" asked the Druggist unzipping his pants. Sylvia ran.

She was just out the door when she bumped into something cold, fat, and sweaty.

"Why Sally," croaked a pleasantly surprised Sheriff, "I thought you left town."

"There must be some mistake," stammered Sylvia as a large beefy hand grabbed one of her breasts and crushed her close to him.

"You still got that football uniform?" the big meat slab whispered huskily tightening his grip.

"I think," she gasped wishing she could figure out where to knee this guy in the groin.

"Go get it on then," he ordered shoving her out the door. "I'll be over in a shake."

He passed her moments later in his cruiser headed in the direction of the dying man in the weeds. A figure sat next to him wearing an orange wig.

Heels clicking on the sidewalk, she followed to have a look. Turning the corner, she saw the cruiser sitting there idling its headlights probing the silky darkness. The sheriff leaned against the bumper having a smoke as a Dougie stood above the prostrate doctor and brought a shovel crashing down again and again until the body stopped thrashing in the weeds. Frozen in shadowed shock Sylvia could only stand there as Dougie scooped a few shovel-fulls of dirt over the corpse as the Sheriff made crude jokes. Laughing, they got in the car.

"Carl, we got to get out of here right now," Sylvia hissed into the dumpster's darkness.

"Why?" Carl asked from right behind. She just about cleared the roof.

"Cause I just saw a man murdered in the weeds."

"Was it Indians?"

"Carl, he was just lying there sick."

"There you go, just lying there. People don't like you just lying there. They want you to work."

"There ain't no work," she said fighting the urge to scream.

"That's where you're wrong," he said hooking his thumbs proudly into his jeans. "I got myself a job."

"A job? Doing what, digging graves?"

"As a matter of fact, it's warehouse work. Benny got it for me."

"A permanent job?" asked Sylvia thinking for a permanent job she might be able to handle the occasional murder in the weeds.

"All I know is the man said to show up after it got good and dark. So let's go."

Carl knocked on the front door of the drugstore. A buzzer sounded. Five minutes later, a security guard appeared.

"We're here about the job."

"Pee in this," the security guard said holding out an empty pop can. Carl shrugged and unzipped. "What about her?"

"Do I get to work too?" Sylvia asked.

"Pee in this," she was ordered. Sylvia did her best "Follow me," said the guard slopping pee all over his hands.

They followed him through the drugstore and its bare dusty shelves entering through locked double doors into the warehouse.

"Wow," said Carl admiring row after row of top-of-the-line electronic consumer goods.

"This way," barked the guard pointing at the loading dock. The yard was lit with tall halogens casting a weird yellow glow. Waiting patiently in the yard were a dozen old pickup trucks and three horse drawn wagons.

"So what we doing?" Carl asked.

"Loading bat guano," said the guard. "Get to work."

Sylvia and Carl worked like dogs lugging fifty pound sacks to the lip of the trailer where gaunt and malnourished looking farmers left money, assorted valuables, and live chickens in payment. Bat guano was the preferred fertilizer for those at the upper income levels who liked their vegetables organic.

"So how much we make?" Sylvia asked the guard once they'd lugged their last sack of earth friendly crap. He handed them a sack of live chickens.

"This is our pay?" she said trying her best to act polite.

"Three chickens each for six hours work. You got the going rate."

"We want cash."

"Cash?" his jaw dropped. "Most I ever got was a cow."

"The law says you got to pay us in legal tender and legal tender doesn't squawk," Sylvia said getting hot.

"I don't know nothing about the law," the guard said looking nervous. "You'll have to take it up with the Boss. He's not going to be happy." The guard disappeared inside.

"Honey, I don't mind chickens," Carl told her.

"Carl, we can't use chickens to buy a bus ticket out of here."

"How do you know if you don't try?" She didn't reply. They waited several minutes. The baby blue Cadillac lurched into the yard at high speed and spun to a stop. It was the Druggist, JB. His wife was working him over with the heel of her high-heeled shoe.

"What's the fucking problem!" he bellowed trying to push off his wife. Sylvia's heart stopped. It was that man who wanted her to stick a vacuum cleaner in his pants, or something. She hoped he wouldn't recognize her which was likely seeing how she was covered in bat shit.

"We want our money," Sylvia said trying to change her voice.

"Didn't you get chickens?" JB asked.

"We can't use chickens for bus fare" said Sylvia.

"Or motorcycle magazines," Carl added.

"Bus fare? What bus?" demanded JB.

"There's no bus?" Sylvia said feeling weak in the knees.

"Not in the last two years."

"So how does a person, like, leave town?" she asked. JB grinned drunkenly. His wife laid on the horn.

"Why a person walks," he leered. "That is, if Dougie don't give him a free ride."

Sylvia's blood turned to ice. She had a pretty good idea what that meant.

"So why don't you be a good little girl and drain my hose?" he lurched toward her dropping his pants. His wife hit him with the car.

FIVE
"Now what?" asked Carl as they approached the edge of town.

"I guess we walk," said Syl keeping a nervous eye over her shoulder for Dougie MacDoogies. Soon they cleared a rise seeing the highway just below. Feeling relieved, Sylvia let Carl get a fire going.

With the smell of roasting chickens wafting through the air, they watched a river of headlights all going who knows where. She hoped they'd be lucky enough to get a ride to somewhere they didn't pay in chickens and throw barrels of food in the trash. And somewhere Dougies didn't murder people in the weeds. 'Course maybe all that was pretty much the normal thing to do these days. Maybe somewhere didn't exist.

"Well, it's no dog," Carl admitted offering the chicken, "but it's done. White meat or dark?" She took a leg, depressed but hungry. "Honey?" he asked

"What?"

"Are you happy?"

Sylvia started to laugh and choke.

"What's so funny?"

"It's just you ask the darnedest things."

"I just wanted to know if you were happy we got married and all."

"I'm miserable," she said, "but it's nothing to do with you."

'You're sure?"

"It's not your fault the factory closed. Just happened, that's all. I don't think it's really anybody's fault. At least not any one single person."

"I wish it were someone's fault. Then we could all get together, kick his butt, and make him work on a shit farm."

"What's a shit farm?"

"A place where they grow shit."

"They don't grow shit, Carl. People just kind of poop it out themselves."

"I don't care where they get the shit. I'd just make them carry shit around all day using only little spoons."

"I guess," said Sylvia kicking out the fire. They trundled down the hill to the side of the highway, and stuck out their thumbs. A passing truck screeched to a stop so quickly it almost jackknifed.

"Hold it right there!" yelled a voice.

Sylvia froze like a deer in a spotlight. "Take the chickens," she cried. "Just leave us alone!"

"I don't want your damned chickens," snarled Peg holding a great big old baseball bat. "Where the hell's my load?!"

Sylvia slumped with relief seeing it was Peg. She'd been expecting the MacDoogie's.

"I want my bat guano!" Peg roared smacking the ground hard with her bat.

"Now wait just a goldarned minute!" Sylvia roared back, pissed. "You were the one who left us."

Peg stared breathing hard as a bellows.

"I had a breakdown. I had to leave temporarily."

"Nobody said nothing to us."

"I forgot."

"You forgot," Sylvia smiled sarcastically. "Two people stuck in your trailer with a load of bat shit, and you just forgot?"

"I didn't mean to," Peg apologized, "I just had things on my mind. What happened?"

"I don't know, next thing we know someone is opening the door and mumbling about angels back in that town over there."

"I left the trailer on the highway," Peg said indignantly. "It was hijacked."

"I guess that just figures," said Sylvia still upset.

"Where'd you see it last exactly?" Peg demanded.

"The drug store. We unloaded it. Bunch of farmers bought it all."

"You unloaded the whole load?" Peg blanched bat falling from her hands. "I'll lose my truck."

Syliva didn't feel so angry now watching Peg all broken-up and teary-eyed. Carl cleared his throat.

"We're awful sorry about your truck," Syl said. "They paid us in chickens. We'd be happy to share."

"Sure," agreed Carl, "take the whole bag if you want."

Peg sighed and despondently kicked a can. Without that guano she was ruined.

"I would say call the sheriff," Syl offered, "but that wouldn't be in your best interests, really."

"Yeah," agreed Peg, "they're all on the take around here."

"Course you still could get your trailer. It's still sitting there."

"I suppose. An empty trailer is better than nothing," she mused. "Maybe they'd let me off with a ten thousand dollar fine and just a small cut in pay." Peg looked at them with renewed hope and determination. "Will you help?"

"Heck no!" Syl barked shuddering at the thought of going back. "I saw Dougie McDoogie kill a doctor in the weeds."

"I helped you when you needed it," Peg reminded her.

"That's right," Carl said looking to his wife. Besides, he was in the mood for French fries. Sylvia sagged. Peg had given them a ride. Oh well, they would be just grabbing her trailer back. What harm could it do?

Peg entered the off-ramp. Syl directed her to the drug store keeping a sharp eye out for Dougies and the Sheriff. The town was even quieter than before.

"There she is," Peg said grimly pulling up beside her battered Fruehauf. Maneuvering back under the fifth wheel, she had them all hooked up in seconds. "What's in the warehouse?" she asked.

"Nothing," hissed Syl who only wanted to get the heck out of there."

"You kidding?" Carl admonished his wife. "All sorts of neat stuff: TVs, video games, and such."

"And all stolen I'm betting," Peg said with a funny expression. She backed right up to the loading dock.

"What are you doing?" Syl almost screamed just about scared to death.

"You guard the rig. Carl and I are going in. If there's any trouble, drive. We'll catch up with you out of town."

"I don't know how to drive this thing,"

"Piece of cake," Peg said. "Just press on the clutch and put it in gear. Be sure you release the brakes."

"But..."

"You can do it."

"Damn," cursed Peg once she jimmied the lock off the back door. "I hear a dog." Inside, a rabid canine snarled.

"Piece of cake," Carl promised slipping in. There was a squealing sound. Carl poked his head out. "Can we save him for dinner?"

"Whatever," Peg said shaking her head. They went in.

The warehouse was crammed with computers, big screen Japanese TV sets, and super-heavy duty washer/dryer combos. Whipping through the aisles with the forklift, Peg had the trailer stuffed full of pallets loaded with high end electronic appliances in less than five minutes.

"Hey, we forgot the dog," Carl cried out once they were all back safely in the cab and half a mile down the road." Peg drove letting out a loud whoop.

"What's wrong!?" Syl jumped hitting the roof.

"We're rich!" Peg exulted. "To hell with bat guano. We sell that stuff for half its worth, we'll clear a hundred grand."

"Would that be dollars?" Syl asked shocked. "But it's stealing, isn't it?" she added dubiously but hopeful nonetheless.

"Hey, I normally don't steal nothing," Peg said looking hard, "but they stole from me. You got a problem with that?" She pulled to the side of the road and slowed down.

'No, no," Syl insisted, "I can certainly see your point."

"Off to Chicago!" Peg cheered and she threw it in gear.

Early that morning, Peg pulled off the freeway and showed Syl how to drive while Carl lay snoring in the back. It was fun, really and she took to it naturally shifting the gears smooth as silk. When Peg, yawning, suggested she could practice a bit on the freeway, Syl quickly agreed.

Syl smiled watching traffic stream by. It was still early. Here and there lonely homes and farms stood some still asleep and dreaming. Some, no doubt, dreaming the strangest things like she often did, such as walking around with your pants off, or something odd. 'Course dreaming wasn't a whole lot different than real life when you considered it. "Who would have thought Dougie MacDoogie would be such a mean SOB?" she said aloud to no one in particular shaking her head. Life just wasn't the way she'd been told. Instead of "Leave it to Beaver" and "The Flintstones", it was really more like that nasty fat ol' Rush Nimrod narrating the Twilight Zone. Peg stirred and sat up.

"Can't you sleep?" Syl asked.

"No, I was having this weird-ass dream about singing in the shower with my pants on."

"Life just isn't like they said," Syl sighed. "Did you ever watch the Flintstones?"

"Uh, sure," Peg said flipping on the radio to some guy singing about his Mom dying, his wife leaving, and him losing his job. "And all that just this week," Peg commented. "A normal life in America, huh?"

"Seems like it sometimes. You know, I've never been to Chicago."

"It's pretty much like any city except for the size."

"Biggest city I ever saw was Des Moines."

"Yeah?" Peg asked surprised.

"Unless you count the town next to ours. It has a real mall. They said we had a mall too but it wasn't really."

"Uh, huh," said Peg, "so this will be an experience for you?"

"I hope not," Syl quickly interjected. "I've already been experienced near to death. No more experience for me, thank you very much."

"We'll be fine. Just be careful. Don't go to the wrong parts of town the wrong time."

"I guess you'll be leaving us there, right? I mean, you do have a job and all."

"I guess I will," Peg admitted. "Unless you got somewhere else you want to go."

"I wish I could keep driving. I like it. Do you think I could?"

"You might find yourself a job in Chicago," Peg said. "After all, you've got experience now. But, it's a rough life, pay's bad, hours stink; you're always on the road."

"It's better than being some starving Indian."

"I guess," Peg responded giving Syl a pat. "Anyways, you're doing real good. I'll put in a good word for you if I can."

"You've been so nice to us," Syl beamed.

"No problem," Peg yawned. "Look, I'm gonna try to sleep again. "Wake me up in an hour, okay?"

"That's a big 10-4, Good Buddy," Syl grinned. Peg smiled sheepishly and curled up in her seat.

Syl woke sunlight splashing her face. The inside of the cab was warm.

"Carl?" she turned around. He was gone. Peg too. She had taken the wheel a couple of hours ago and Sylvia had promptly conked. She looked out the window seeing hundreds of parked rigs. Where had those two run off?

"Sir?" she asked hailing the first guy she saw. "Could you tell me where we are?" He stared at her for one full second and walked the other way.

"Hey!" yelled a familiar voice. Syl turned to see Peg.

"Where were you?" Syl asked.

"Coffee and fresh doughnuts. Hungry?"

"You seen Carl?" Syl asked.

"He was still snoring when I left."

"Oh, heck," Sylvia said breath catching in her throat. Carl out loose with all these trucks? She broke into a quick trot.

"You want Indian? I'll show you Indian," growled a burly trucker. He had Carl in a head lock and was giving him an Indian head rub. Carl howled.

"Hey, you let that man go!" Syl yelled dashing up. Big Jim looked up surprised.

"Who're you?"

"That's my husband," Syl said as Peg breathlessly arrived.

"Yeah, well we found him under Jim's rig with this," said a guy standing next to Big Jim. He held up a large greasy wrench.

"I was just trying to adjust a bolt," Carl whined into Jim's flannel shirt.

"Who the hell are you, anyway?" Jim demanded rubbing Carl's scalp again. "Company send you to slow me down? Collect them a big fine?

"Let the man go," Peg said calmly stepping forward. Something in her eye convinced Big Jim to do as she said. "Look, Carl's been under a little pressure." She gave Jim a big wink. "He's not Company, I guarantee it. Did he really do any harm?"

"Hell, I don't know," Jim responded gruffly. "I haven't had a chance to check." Peg nodded, took the wrench and rolled under the rig.

"What'd he do?" Jim demanded nervously. "I swear, he slows me down, his hide's gonna retread a tire."

Peg banged around under the rig. Metal sounded on metal. Big Jim, unable to stand the pressure, started edging towards Carl.

"Stay back or I'll take your scalp," Carl threatened. Peg slid back out.

"All finished," she said nonchalantly passing Jim the wrench.

"What'd he do?"

"Tried to drop your transmission. I got it all snugged up."

"By god, I'll drop your transmission," Jim snarled grabbing for Carl.

"Hey, hey," Peg said pushing between them. "I took care of it."

"And how the hell would you know?" sneered the second driver seeing how she was a woman.

"Cause I used to drive this model from Deadhorse to Fairbanks three times a week. I could overhaul that tranny blindfolded."

"You drove the Haul Road?" both drivers stepped back awed.

"Seventy three through seventy five."

"Well, all right," roared the men slapping her back and offering to buy coffee. They were real disappointed she only had the time to relate one hair-raising adventure, but she promised to call on the CB.

"You take care now," Big Jim grinned doubling Carl over with a playful gut punch. Both men waved.

"Those guys were really impressed with you," Syl said uncharacteristically jealous.

"You betcha," Peg said punching Carl again. "You touch one more rig while I'm around, you'll wish I'd let them use you for a retread."

"Yes, ma'am," he moaned.

"Well, I made some phone calls," Peg said with an ominous edge to her voice as she wheeled back into traffic. It was rush hour and Lakeshore Drive was completely backed up. She would give them the fifty cent tour.

"Is that the ocean?" Syl asked seeing the vast expanse of Lake Michigan. Sailboats bobbed on the choppy gray waves.

"Might as well be for the size of it."

"And those are buildings?" Syl asked getting her first good look at the skyline.

"Big huh?" Peg said taking her eyes off the slow moving traffic to have a look. "Some of the tallest in the world."

"Wow," said Carl taking his nose from his motorcycle magazine, "look at all the dogs."

"And bicycles," Syl added watching hundreds of cycling commuters jockeying for position on a paved sidewalk. "I wish we could stop."

"First things, first," Peg smiled turning off. Leaving the big shiny buildings they entered the Chicago of factories, rail yards, and crumbling red bricks.

"Is this where the real folks live?" Syl asked.

"Looks pretty real to me," Peg said maneuvering the rig over bumpy pavement. Every building, and house looked pretty much worked over, and every other lot was vacant.

"Look at all the black people," Syl exclaimed.

"It's their part of the city."

"So are they gonna buy our computers and TVs?"

"Don't think so," smiled Peg glancing at a piece of paper next to her open map. "I'm looking for Normal Street. You see it here?"

Syl tried to read. It was hard seeing anything on this bumpy pavement.

"Ten blocks to the left?" she guessed.

"Yes, ma'am," said Peg turning. Syl watched the people as the rig rolled past. Old folks shambling along. Young women waiting for the bus. Young men standing around doing nothing. Nobody looked too happy which wasn't surprising considering there was lots of trash, no paint and no jobs.

Peg pulled the rig to a stop. Syl looked out. A knot of angry looking young black men waited on a corner up the block.

"Wait here," Peg ordered looking nervous.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm gonna buy a gun."

"This is a gun store?" Syl asked looking up at the crumbling brick building.

"So I was told," said Peg stepping out. She was scared as hell but trying to put a good face on it. "I'll be right back. Don't open the windows, don't talk to any strangers."

"Whatever you say," said Syl as Peg entered the house looking both ways. Syl gazed out the windshield. The young men down at the corner seemed to have migrated their way. Carl looked up from his motorcycle magazine.

"What are we doing here?" he asked.

"Peg's buying a rifle."

"All right!" said Carl lighting up. "Hey, look at all the black guys. Hey, neat hair."

"Peg said to sit tight," Syl warned her man.

"I want to stretch my legs." Carl was out the cab before Syl could grab him and doing jumping jacks. The migrating young men paused. Carl started doing push ups. They watched. He did sit ups, they kept watching. He was in the middle of a handstand when Peg came out the door holding an assault rifle. She was followed by an enormously fat black man wearing a fez and a long robe. The vaguely disconcerted-looking young men quickly migrated back the way they'd come.

"Hold this," Peg said to Carl handing him the gun. She opened the rear of the trailer. Grunting, the man in the fez pulled out two enormous TVs. They shook hands.

"PA,DA,DA,DA,DA,DA, DOW!!!" blasted the assault rifle. The entire neighborhood hit the street.

"Carl, what do you think you're doing?!" Sylvia yelled out the window of the cab.

"Got me a pigeon," Carl said proudly holding up a bloody feathered mess.

"Thanks again" Peg said quickly leaping into the truck. The whole neighborhood was left staring as they sped off.

"I can't believe you handed Carl a gun," Syl admonished Peg.

"It worked out fine," Peg said watching for any sign of a police car. She needn't have bothered. The police seldom came to Normal Street except to harass the locals and pick up their bribes. She headed north.

"Sure is a change," Syl remarked as they left the land of crumbling red brick and entered the wealthier suburbs.

"What?" Peg said distracted by traffic.

"The difference between here and Normal Street."

"How do you mean?"

"The money. It's like you either have a lot or you don't have any at all."

"It's like that all over America," Peg said.

"It doesn't really seem right."

"What's 'right' got to do with it? It's the American Dream."

Syl had no answer. Well-dressed suburbanites passed them in expensive imported cars. Everything seemed neat, and clean. Even the garbage littering parts of the street looked fresher and more expensive. Stores and malls and subdivisions full of big houses that might be brick, except that it was imported from Europe and they certainly weren't crumbling.

"Actually, it's not as good as it looks," Peg said after awhile.

"How's that?"

"Look closely. The shopping centers are new, but half the storefronts are vacant.. Check out that Savings and Loan. Closed. There's nothing there. Watch this next house. See that little white sign? It say's "HUD". Means the home's been repossessed. You see them all over."

"Still..."

"Oh, yeah, sure, they're doing relatively better, but what goes around, comes around. Has to. I mean, if the working people aren't earning and spending money, who's going to be buying in the stores, making loans from the bank, paying taxes? I tell you, when they went after the working people of America, they killed the goose that laid those golden eggs."

"Goose?" Carl asked looking up from his motorcycle magazine. "Where?"

"Don't worry, honey," Syl assured him. "We're not talking about food." Peg turned into the parking lot of a huge mall and headed for freight unloading.

"I'm looking for Whacked Out Webster."

"Who?"

"The Discount King. He sells discount TVs and what-not."

"Is he going to buy our load?"

"I think. But we have to be careful. He doesn't have the best reputation."

"Is that why you bought an assault rifle?" Sylvia asked.

"More or less," Peg said and she laid out her plan. Carl would accompany her standing guard, and Syl would stay in the cab. Peg would keep an eye on Carl, and Syl was to leave at the first sign of trouble.

"If you're so worried about these people, couldn't we find someone else?" Syl asked.

"People who receive stolen goods generally are not nice people," Peg explained. She and Carl got out of the rig approaching two guards. They talked, one got the Manager, a beady-eyed chubby man with a handlebar moustache. Peg showed him the load while Carl took aim at several pigeons. He didn't shoot any.

"We'll take it," said the Manager rubbing his pudgy hands together in greedy anticipation.

"One hundred thousand, cash," Peg said.

"Cash?" he repeated eyes goggling.

"Cash?" parroted his beefcake guards.

"Cash" Peg said with finality wishing Carl would pay attention and stop drooling over those pigeons.

"I could write you a nice check?" smiled the Manager.

"Uh huh," Peg said dryly, "and I'd take your check if I wanted to see one make like a ball and bounce. Cash or the whole load goes to Weird Willie's," she threatened politely.

"Willie's? Wait, we can get you cash. Can you wait a couple days?"

"Are you kidding? Come on, Carl, we're out of here."

"Wait, wait, wait!" the Manager waddled towards her pleading. "We'll get you the cash, nice green stuff. Can you wait just five minutes?"

"The clock's ticking," Peg said looking at her watch. The Manager retreated to a corner for a conference with his beefy boys who soon left.

"Nice weather, huh?" the Manager asked leaning against a wall.

"I hadn't noticed," Peg said not turning her back. She cocked an ear. Was that an alarm ringing? Shots were fired.

"Those damned kids," the Manager grinned. "What can you do?"

The two guards rushed in ripping off ski masks; one was bleeding.

"Okay, here's your dough," the Manager said tossing her a sack of cash. "It ought to be close."

"Hold it right there!!" yelled a gaggle of cops piling in through the back door.

"Help!!! Bank robbers!!" the Manager screamed pointing at Peg.

"Now wait just a darned minute!" Peg yelled feeling darned stupid.

"Hands up or we fire!" yelled the bank guard sergeant.

"Fire?" Peg repeated helplessly.

"You got it," Carl obeyed spattering the wall with automatic weapons fire. The cops and guards ran.

"Hey, watch the TV's!" the Manager yelled as his beefy guards returned fire in Peg's direction.

"Run, Carl, run!" Peg screamed grabbing the rifle. Carl ran.

"I guess we'd better get," Carl grinned hopping back in the cab.

"Where's Peg?" Syl asked but bullets were whizzing past her open window. She stomped the gas. They went roaring out of the parking lot spilling crates of expensive appliances all over the parking lot. Needless to say the cops couldn't follow for all the carloads of expensively dressed suburbanites who screeched to a stop to get the loot.

"Oops" Carl said.

It was late evening by the time Syl finally pulled the rig off to the side of a lonely deserted street deep in the bowels of South Chicago.

"What's up?" Carl asked.

"We're almost out of fuel."

"Oh."

"Hungry?"

"Does this Indian eat dog?"

"Why don't you find us something," Syl suggested. She sat back in her seat staring at the darkened street while Carl went foraging. Where was Peg, she wondered? What would happen to them?

"Carl?" she called out the open window. He was searching the weeds.

"Yeah?"

"What's the meaning of Life?"

"Why you asking me?" he whined finally after a long pause.

"I don't know. Just find us something to eat." Carl scampered off after a field mouse.

"Don't worry, honey," Carl assured Sylvia nestling up against her on the narrow bunk after a dinner of boiled grass. "Tomorrow we'll find us a buffalo herd. Then we'll eat good."

Good ol' Carl, she smiled as he started to snore. Even in the middle of South Chicago, he was still on the open plains. Well, some people took to drink and gambling. At least his delusions were free.

SIX
Peg was playing cards with the Sheriff. Syl was sitting on the floor all tied up staring at a big stack of bundled banknotes while Carl who was wearing a police uniform kept repeating "twenty, twenty, twenty" to himself. Depressed, she woke up. Something smelled like singed hair. Raising herself on an elbow she peeked out the window. A teepee built of cardboard stood in the long grass where Carl, in a headdress of pigeon feathers, was roasting a skinned prairie cat.

"Hey, you got up finally," Carl grinned his face streaked with lube grease as his chilly wife joined him by the fire.

"I am not being your squaw again," she announced firmly taking a seat on a laundry detergent bucket.

"Ready for breakfast?" he asked.

"Isn't that a cat?"

"Sure is, a little old tiny, midget mountain lion," Carl said. "Try some, it's good."

Having eaten, Syl sighed and sat back sated in the grass. It was cool that morning and cloudy. Maybe it would rain. Carl cleaned up the rest of his midget mountain lion and started pegging out the skin.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Winter mittens is what I'm thinking. This Indian's gonna have warm hands."

"I wonder if we should look for Peg," Syl said staring out over the grass to a huge old abandoned factory. What was the best way to look for somebody when you didn't have a clue where they were? She finally decided to write messages on scraps of paper and post them on street corners.

**P, Where R U? Rig is safe. Corner**

**of 6** th **and Lincoln. L** u **v, Sylvia & Carl**

Day followed day in the wilderness of weeds and empty pavement. They explored the urban badlands wandering further and further in search of game and new corners where Syl would faithfully post her message to Peg. All was emptiness and desolation where once industry had been. Weren't a heck of a lot of folks either, at least in this part of town. The occasional street people appeared pushing overloaded shopping carts filled with recyclables. Carl, of course, being in full Indian mode would want to take their scalps.

"Don't they look in enough trouble without you bothering them too?" Sylvia would ask.

"Oh, okay," he'd relent grudgingly, "but the first fat farmer we see, that sucker's mine."

Which was fine with her Syl figured as the chance of seeing a farmer, or any other fat people around here were mighty slim.

Peg never showed. Syl was worried. She considered doing some driving herself. You know, just to earn some money until Peg arrived. But she really didn't know where to start, and besides, you couldn't just take off with somebody's rig and all without even asking permission, could you? So she killed time wandering around while Carl killed just about every city critter he could hook, snare, trap, or plunk. He even rigged himself up a little bow and arrow. It was sort of cute, really, watching him stalk some rat through a trash-strewn alley.

But watching Carl do his Indian routine got kind of boring really, and she got used to taking long walks. They would wander the city's streets and alleys. No one bothered them. Sometimes, they didn't even see anyone walking late while in the distant humid Chicago night, police cars and ambulances wailed and wailed.

One night, they were passing a lonely grocery store standing like a low squat fortress in the middle of an empty lot. Carl wanted to check out the garbage cans. They walked over. The bins were locked.

"Doggone it," Carl cussed kicking the rusted steel.

"That's okay, honey," she assured him, "I really do prefer your pigeon stew."

"I sure could use a French fry," her man sighed. "Hey, you want to go inside?"

"What's the point? We're broke."

"I just want to look," Carl whined. "You never let me look."

"Okay, but you got to promise me no scalp-taking."

"Now you know I can't make a promise like that, Syl. I've got a sworn duty as an Indian."

"Well," she said thinking quickly, "this time you're on a spying mission. We're just here to check it out."

"All right," grinned Carl excited at the thought, "I'll disguise myself."

"Oh, honey, great idea!" Sylvia exclaimed. Maybe he'd take off that damned pigeon feather bonnet and put some pants on, but Carl had other ideas. He would disguise himself to be a pigeon.

"They don't let pigeons in grocery stores," she had tried to argue, but Carl was having none of it.

"Don't you get it, Syl? No one pays attention to us pigeons."

"That's cause they're a darn sight smaller than you." He looked at her all put out. "Well, at least try to be a quiet pigeon."

"I'll be the quietest pigeon that ever clucked," promised her man.

Aisle after aisle stretched before Sylvia all glittering, gleaming, and bulging with food. Dry food, wet food, food wrapped in cellophane, plastic, paper. Food in cans, food in sacks and food just lying there. Everywhere, she turned, something she could eat that Carl hadn't or couldn't catch in the grass. And all of it was completely unattainably out of reach because they didn't have one thin dime. Her stomach growled and grumbled churning like a cement mixer. Saliva puddled at the corners of her mouth. Hands itched to reach out and grab something. Her mouth ached to chew. "Oh, my," she said feeling simultaneously faint and violently voracious, "maybe we should go. Carl? Carl?!"

She found him reading motorcycle magazines and munching Korny Kurls.

"Carl, oh my lord, put those back," she said snatching the bag. Carl looked surprised.

"Jeez, Syl," he said licking his fingers, "I didn't even know I was doing that."

"We've got to leave," she hissed dragging her Indian to the door.

"But I haven't finished reading about the Harley convention up in Ringworm, South Dakota."

"Carl, you promised to be good. And since you weren't, why didn't you steal us a steak? Body can't exist on Korny Kurls."

"Okay, I'll get us a steak," he said trying to drag her back.

"We're leaving. The police are practically already here," Syl said roughly shoving Carl to the glass doors.

"Stop right there!!" they were ordered by what seemed like the voice of God.

Syl froze putting her hands in the air. Carl clucked like a pigeon and pecked the floor.

"Is something wrong?" Syl asked not daring to turn around. There was a deep malicious chuckle.

"You forgot your Friendly Food coupons."

"We didn't buy anything."

"The pigeon ate Korny Kurls."

"He's not my pigeon," Sylvia insisted. "I didn't feed him those Korny Kurls. Look Mister," she said turning to face the armed manager of the store, "couldn't you please let us go, we're broke, we're unemployed. Really, I'm so sorry."

"Did you say unemployed?" Manager Fred said thoughtfully chewing the end of his handlebar moustache as he cradled his fully automatic assault rifle. His name tag read: 'Fred Proctor' and he was dressed in full body armor.

"Don't shoot," she almost begged.

"Shoot?" grinned Proctor, "why would I shoot? You're desperate, you're broke, you're obviously hungry, and you're white folk. Wouldn't you like to work?"

The heavens seemed to open above the stricken Sylvia. Was this a cue for a song?

"A job?" she repeated so quietly Proctor could barely hear.

"All of the above and I've got something on you. You're perfect for Friendly Food."

"Carl, did you hear that? He's offering us work." Syl burst into tears. Carl stopped pecking and glared at the manager suspiciously.

"What kind work?" he asked in pigeon accented Indian style pidgin English.

"I need one clerk and a meat-cutter."

"Carl can butcher up anything," she offered, "and I used to work as a clerk part-time after school."

"You're hired," Proctor beamed.

"I can't believe this," Sylvia gushed. "I mean, a real job and..."

"Hey," snapped Proctor with a scowl on his face, "are you going to take care of those customers or stand here flapping your jaws all day?" Sylvia jumped seeing a long line of customers waiting patiently at the till.

"I am so sorry," she apologized to the first woman in line as she stared in panic at the cash register. Cash registers had changed a bit since she'd last worked one. This didn't look at all like the one she used to use back home. "Does anyone know how to turn this on?"

"It's a bar code," her first customer explained. "See these little black lines? You have to sweep them over the glass."

"Like this?" Syliva asked awkwardly waving a package of hot dogs. A red light flashed and beeped.

"You got it," beamed the woman. The rest of the line clapped.

"I am so embarrassed. Back home, we just punched keys. That will be five dollars, please," Syl said reading the little screen. Five dollars? For a package of hot dogs?" She passed the hot dogs over the glass again.

"You're charging me twice for the same thing!" protested her customer no longer smiling.

"If that isn't typical at Friendly Food," crabbed someone else.

"I'm surprised they don't charge us to enter and exit the store."

"Hey, don't give them any ideas!"

"Is there some problem?" the Manager Fred's voice boomed out over the PA system. Everyone froze.

"Just let me out of here," the first customer insisted. Slapping a ten dollar bill on the counter, she hastened for the door.

"No problem here, sir," Sylvia spoke into the phone.

"I thought not. I wouldn't want to call Riot Control."

"Riot control," chuckled Sylvia reaching for the next customer's package of napkins. "It sure is nice to work for a man with a sense of humor. Fourteen dollars for paper napkins? Boy, things are sure expensive in the city?"

"Just ring me up, okay?" said the elderly black lady with nervous glances towards the glassed-in booth where Proctor amused himself targeting customers with his machine gun.

"Can't you go any faster?" another customer urged.

"I'm going, I'm going," Sylvia insisted. Boy, these city people certainly were nervous. They ought to slow down and live a little.

"How's it going?" the Boss said leaning uncomfortably close smelling like cheap cologne, stale beer, and unwashed underwear. He peered into the cash register.

"Seems to be fine," Syl said stifling a gag. Her drawer was stuffed with cash.

"Don't take any IOU's," he ordered. "I don't care if they whine, beg, offer their first born. Do you know how hard it is to sell a kid? Let's see your teeth."

"What?"

"Your mouth, open it. It's for the Insurance."

Sylvia opened wide. He had a good look with a flashlight.

"Not bad, okay open your blouse for the breast exam."

"Honey, don't fall for that!" exclaimed a woman wearing an old straw hat.

"Hey, mind your own business, you old bat. This is legit."

"Like hell it is," she snapped. "Next thing he'll be trying a pelvic exam with that little thing he calls his prick."

"You know, you are welcome to take your business elsewhere!" Proctor roared right in the woman's face. She stomped on his foot. "Owww!!"

"Ring me up quick," said the woman as Manager Fred limped off. She was out the door before the gun went off. Everyone else hit the floor.

"Let that be a lesson to you!" shouted the Manager waving his gun and a near-empty gin bottle from the window of his cubicle.

"This certainly is an interesting place to shop," Sylvia said attempting to smile at her next customer.

"Hey, it's the only place to shop what with the buses not running. Why else would a person come here?"

"That will be eighty-six dollars and forty-three cents," Sylvia said filling the small bag. "I'm sorry we don't have someone to help you to your car." The customer stared hard; then left the store laughing.

"What's so funny?" Sylvia wanted to know. No one would tell her.

"How's it going?" Proctor said leaning uncomfortably close as he fingered the contents of the drawer.

"Seems fine," said Sylvia trying to pull back.

"What is that awful smell?" an old woman of Chinese origin complained wrinkling her nose.

"Who pulled your cord?" Proctor demanded. "Hey," he said with a leer at Sylvia, "I'm having a little lunch upstairs. Care to join me?"

"But we have customers," she protested weakly.

"So fuck them," he said loud enough for all the store to hear.

"I'm really not hungry."

"Come on," he grinned standing very close, "I've got a nice big hot dog."

"More like Vienna sausage if you ask me," said a voice from the back of the line. A laugh went up.

"Who said that?!" Proctor screamed. "Aren't prices high enough? They'll be higher unless I see me some appreciation."

The line was silent. Proctor stood there beaming with satisfaction as he chewed the end of his moustache. Hitching up his pants over a thick belly, he swaggered away.

"At least he won't be bothering you about his sausage for the meanwhile," said the next customer quietly, "but I do hope you got birth control. Lord knows what you'd end up with a man like that." Sylvia was silent. What did Manager Fred expect anyway? He knew she was married.

The line was endless. Each person deposited a pitifully small pile of goods on the counter and large amounts of cash. The cash drawer got so stuffed, Sylvia had to start putting it in paper bags. Every now and then, she'd take a nervous glance at the manager's cubicle. He was slumped over his desk.

"How's it going?" a familiar voice wheezed half an hour later. Something small and hard poked her in the back.

"Very good," said Sylvia trying to edge away flustered. He really was very close. Now he smelled of cheese. "Uh, could you tell me how my husband is doing?"

"Your husband?" Proctor asked.

"You know, Carl, the butcher you hired."

"Shit, I don't care. Let's talk about you and me."

"You know," she said trying to put the cash drawer between her and Proctor. He leaned over it anyway. "You never did tell me how much I got paid."

"I didn't?" he looked surprised. "I guess I forgot. Well, let's see now, special wages and all, special conditions, the fact that I couldn't get anyone else...Thirty-five bucks an hour."

"Thirty-five dollars an hour?" Sylvia's jaw dropped.

"Thirty-five dollars an hour?" repeated an angry chorus from the crowd.

"Oh, my God, we're rich," she whispered. They could buy a house.

"So you see," Proctor grinned leaning over the cash drawer, "it pays to be friendly to Friendly Fred."

"I guess you're right," sighed Sylvia. "But I have to be loyal to my man even if it's thirty five bucks an hour." She slammed the cash drawer expecting to get fired. Proctor's sex organ happened to be right in the drawer's path. He screamed in pain.

"Oh my..." Sylvia said trying to free the trapped man.

"Open it, open it!!" he howled.

"I need to ring up a sale. Please," she asked the next customer.

"Oops, I forgot something," smiled the thin elderly man stepping aside.

"Let me out," gasped Proctor white as flour.

"Next!" Sylvia said desperately.

"Oops, I forgot something too," said the next woman turning away.

"Next please," Sylvia begged. Proctor was starting to sweat blood.

"Oops, I forgot something too. I better go to end of the line," said the next customer.

"Next!!!" Sylvia screamed as Proctor fainted.

"No, after you," said the next customer to the one after. "I've got all day."

"The man is dying here," Sylvia pleaded

"Okay, okay," said an old priest handing her an orange. It rang up for three dollars and sixty five cents. Proctor fell over freed.

"Is he okay?" someone wanted to know from the back.

"Looks like it," said a retired nurse.

"Too bad," laughed an octogenarian.

"That'll teach him to keep his sausage in his pants."

Sylvia drug Proctor over to the next checkout stand. She laid him out on the counter. "Is there anyone I can call?" she asked her customers.

"Ambulance don't come to this part of town. Come on, girl, check us out."

Syl checked. She checked and checked the endless line as old faces, wrinkled faces, faded, staring faces filed in and out the door. Although she was tired, she didn't dare take a break. Proctor was still out cold. Someone had stolen his toupee and replaced it with a head of rotten cabbage. Flies buzzed in and out of his nose.

She still couldn't believe she was getting thirty five dollars an hour. They were rich! Now they could eat regularly, she could buy her own rig, there was no limit to their dreams. She was in such a state of euphoria about it all, she didn't even see the old faces, the wrinkled faces, the faded, staring faces as they filed past depositing their small piles of cans and packages, and leaving their large piles of cash. It grew darker outside. Finally, the line tapered off.

"Whew," she said checking out the last customer. She looked up. Proctor was gone. The lights were low, there was a key waiting in the door.

"Hey, could you let me out?" her customer asked.

"Are we closed?'

"It's two:thirty in the morning isn't it? Ain't you greedy suckers got enough of our money? Thirty-five dollars an hour...I never heard the like."

"You're just jealous," Sylvia retorted under her breath. She'd worked hard. Proctor was right. Those customers were really ungrateful. "Hello?" she called out to the empty store. "Is anybody here?" No one answered. She ran back to the meat counter. Carl had locked himself in the cooler.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Noooooo," Carl's teeth chattered. He was looking slightly blue.

"Carl, did you know we were making thirty-five bucks an hour?"

"Could you take me to a hospital?" he asked.

"Oh, honey, do you feel that bad?" He tried to nod. Hey, now they had insurance, Sylvia realized. Why the heck not?

"Isn't it nice to be working again?" she said as she led him out the door. She noticed a small group of people across the street all huddled around a barrel of burning trash. "Excuse me," she asked drawing close. "My husband's real cold. Could he stand next to your fire?" The crowd parted silently allowing Carl access to the burning barrel.

"What happened?" someone asked.

"He got himself stuck in the meat locker for I don't know how long." Sylvia said.

"It was right after I started work," Carl chattered.

"Working where?" demanded a big guy with lots of scars.

"He got a job working as a butcher in the grocery store," Sylvia said unable to keep the pride out of her voice. Sullen, gaunt faces gathered closer, staring.

"You say what?" asked a pinch faced woman in a bee-hive hairdo.

"At the grocery," she said pointing. "I work there too."

"Scabs!!!" the crowd yelled pelting them with garbage. A grapefruit hit Sylvia square in the chest.

"Hey," she said somewhat sharply, "that's perfectly good—ow!--food."

The crowd opened up with spoiled tomatoes. Alarms sounded, three black helicopters roared out of the night sky as personnel carriers raced up the street sirens howling. Armed cops in riot gear rappelled from the nearest buildings as masked plainclothesmen spilled from doorways.

Sylvia sprinted for the nearby alley dragging her man; the small crowd of strikers on her heels. In a swirling frenzy of tear gas and water cannons, blood crazed police and plainclothesmen attacked each other in a tornado of explosions and weapons fire. Sylvia turned down another alley desperately dragging the benumbed Carl. It was a dead end.

"Stay away from us!!" Sylvia turned to face the group.

"You rotten scabs!" yelled a box boy.

"What do you mean, scabs!?" Sylvia was outraged. "We're working folks same as you."

"You took our jobs!" shouted the bee-hived blonde letting fly with another egg.

"You stop that right now!" Sylvia yelled.

"You took our jobs!" bellowed the meat cutter.

"Now wait just a goldarned minute," Sylvia said, "we didn't know you were striking. We just walked in the store, we were offered a job. We didn't see any signs, or pickets or nothing."

"Judge slapped us with a court order," said the butcher. "We have to be standing one thousand feet from the property line and we can't have any signs. We so much as squeak, the cops attack."

"We can't even buy a newspaper ad," complained another striking checker.

"Well, gee, I don't even understand why you're striking anyway," Sylvia said mystified. "What's wrong with thirty-five bucks an hour?"

"Thirty-five?" howled the box boy. "They pay you thirty-five and they wouldn't even give us a five cents an hour raise?"

"You damned scabs!" the crowd hollered pelting them with eggs.

"You mean thirty five isn't the regular pay?" Sylvia asked from behind the protection of a garbage can lid.

"It's half what I gross in a twelve hour day and I'm the highest paid person in the store," bellowed the butcher.

"Oh...," said Sylvia. There was a pause.

"They're just paying you scab wages. Nobody else will stoop low enough to take our jobs."

"Yeah, well nobody could stoop lower than us!" Sylvia burst out. "We're eating pigeon for god's sake."

"And dogs, and cat, and mice, and rats," Carl counted out on his fingers. "I even found a frog. They say it tastes like chicken. I thought it tasted like a frog."

"Why in heaven are you eating that stuff?" the bee-hived woman wanted to know. "You natural food freaks?"

"We eat it cause that's what you eat when you're living on the street broke," Sylvia snapped.

"Not only that," Carl broke in proudly, "but I just spent the better part of a day stuck in a meat locker, but that's okay 'cause I'm a tough Indian."

"And Carl here could also use some medical attention, and not just the physical part either," Sylvia added tapping her head meaningfully. "Anyways, we're not taking anybody's job. We quit, so there!" They stood there staring at each other. Suddenly the angry-crowd of bitter strikers melted into a sympathetic gathering of sniffing neighbors. Gathering closely around the two they pressed them with their dimes, their nickels, their half-eaten sandwiches.

"They take indigents down at County State," said the bee-hived woman who introduced herself as Martha. "They'll take anyone who ain't on strike."

"I could show you the way," offered the skinny box boy who had passed Carl a tattered motorcycle magazine.

"We didn't mean to take your jobs, honest," Sylvia insisted. "We come from a union town."

"Before we voted it out," Carl added. "Then they shut down the plant so now nobody's got diddly do."

"It's okay, we know you didn't mean any harm," Martha smiled pinching Carl's bluish cheek. "You all take care."

"My husband is really sick," Sylvia told the overworked emergency desk nurse.

"Take a number and have a seat."

Sylvia smiled and turned stepping over a cook fire. Almost a hundred people crowded the small room: eating, sleeping, doing their laundry with babies crying and children running back and forth.

"Is this the end of the line?" she asked a woman with wide, staring eyes.

"She can't talk none," offered a Hispanic woman sitting on the next couch.

"Sore throat?"

"I think she's dead."

"Dead?" Sylvia repeated shocked.

"Yeah, she came in saying her chest hurt."

"How long ago was that?"

She scrunched her face up trying to remember: "Sometime last week. I'm not sure, you see, because I was in a coma, but somehow I come out of it. Still, I can barely remember who I am." She leaned over to take a closer look at Carl. "What's the matter with him?"

"He's cold."

"Cold? They don't usually take cold people until November. That's a long wait."

"But he was stuck in a meat locker."

"They only got one doctor working two shifts. That's him over there," the woman pointed. A young man with several days growth and a bloody white jacket lay snoring on the floor. She reached over and felt Carl's forehead. "You're right, he's freezing. Look, I betcha if we can get him somewhere warm for awhile, he'll be fine."

"You think?"

"Follow me. By the way," and she turned to smile. "My name is Wilma. I know, it doesn't sound Hispanic, but that's what the nurse calls me."

Having set Carl on a squeaking gurney, Syl rolled him into the clunky elevator. The hospital was ancient, but vast. Years before it had been one of the finest facilities in the nation, but since it was not a hi-tech profit center for privately owned medical providers, it had its funding slashed as now its clients were mainly the indigent and working poor.

"I know there was a bath up here somewheres," Wilma muttered as they wandered down narrow dirty hallways filled with groaning patients, piles of soiled linen and the smell of rotting flesh. "Hey, look a nurse," Wilma cried spotting a white uniform at the end of a long corridor. "You!! Come here, we need some help." At first, the nurse tried to pretend she couldn't hear them, but as Sylvia wheeled the gurney closer, the nurse broke into a run and dashed through the next door. Wilma, who was no spring chicken, spent several minutes hammering away at the locked door with her hospital slippers, but no one answered. Finally, she gave it up. "Damn, we almost got a nurse's attention. That's pretty good, the first day."

They pushed on wheeling Carl past sick and wheezing patients crowding the halls and rooms where two and even three people often shared a bed barely big enough for one. Whole families waited with their loved ones amid barking dogs, cooking food, and the occasional dismantled automobile. Spotting one more nurse at the end of a long doorless hall, Wilma howled in triumph. The nurse dodged desperately to the left and right. All exits were blocked.

"Oh, my God, don't jump!" shrieked a horrified Sylvia as the nurse gave them a contemptuous look and stepped though an open window.

"Go after her," hissed Wilma. "They pull this stuff all the time."

"But..."

"Come on, come on," the older woman pushed. Sylvia stepped out on the open ledge. Twenty feet to the right, the nurse stood smoking a cigarette. Seeing Sylvia, she looked surprised.

"Please, it's only one question. Do you know where...." but the howling wind snatched her words away as pre-Great Depression era concrete crumbled under Syl's feet. She inched forward, not daring to look down to where tiny cars roared and honked.

"Hi," said a little voice pulling at her leg.

"Please don't push," Sylvia begged.

A little girl stood at the window covered in open sores. "Would you like to come in and play?"

"I'm sorry, honey, I can't just now. My husband is real sick."

"What's he got?"

"He's cold."

"I have cholera and they won't let me see anyone. Is cholera not good?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Oh, hell, where did she go? Did you see a nurse, little girl?"

"That way," the solemn little girl pointed. Sylvia continued, her heart thumping so loud she could hardly hear the roaring wind. Turning the corner, a wide flat asphalt roof stretched before her puddled with brackish water.

"Come back!!" Syl called to the nurse who was jogging briskly between the air shafts. Nimbly, the nurse slipped through a door. Splashing her way around the deepest puddles, Sylvia followed her inside. Someone grabbed her arm; a lab coat was thrust in her face:

"You're late. Lecture starts in two minutes," a gangly intern said giving her a rough shove into a brightly lit lecture hall. Several students snickered loudly.

"Must be one of those minority trailer trash placements," someone whispered derisively. "She won't last long."

Hot and embarrassed, Sylvia found a seat. The nurse she'd been chasing was giving one of the doctors a back rub. Before her stretched a large gleaming tiled room. It was clean, modern, well-furnished and the medical students gathered around her wore freshly laundered lab coats—their wrists and fingers gleaming with expensive jewelry, their hair expensively cut. They gossiped loudly among themselves until a bell sounded. In strode a nurse strewing rose petals in front of her. She was followed by a tall patrician looking gentleman with a narrow nose, blue-eyes, and blond hair turning white. The students arose as one group and deeply bowed.

"You may be seated," announced the nurse smirking like a beauty queen. She snapped her fingers. Double doors to the left opened. Two aides wheeled in a stainless steel gurney. The patient's eyes were open, but he was otherwise bound and gagged. "Lights, music!" cued the nurse removing the surgeon's cape. As the lights dimmed, Vivaldi played in the background as the students attentively leaned in.

"Ladies, gentlemen," announced the nurse with a theatrical sweep, "I give you Dr. Zabones, our starring surgeon and member of the board. He is, as you know, one of the world's highest paid surgeons, which says every thing, of course. Dr.Zabones!!!"

The students roared as the good doctor took a slight, but imperious bow. After five minutes of sustained applause, he modestly held up one finely sculpted hand. There was immediate silence.

"Before we begin," Zabones said unexpectedly squeaking like an un-tuned violin, "some of you are no doubt wondering why I am here, instructing you when I could be billing some unfortunate $4,000 an hour for mandated elective surgery. Has any one of you an opinion?" A hand was raised. "You may speak."

"Actually Doctor," said a third year student standing respectfully, "given your reputation as a smart operator and very successful Wall Street investor, we knew there had to be an angle."

"How very clever of you," smiled the Doctor faintly. "Yes, an angle, as you say. Or we could say motive to give it gloss. And just what are my possible motives given that a successful surgeon never does anything for free?" Several students raised their hands.

"Well, I know that the, uh, public," one student announced amid several contemptuous snorts, "is bleating once more about the Canadian single payer medical system. Perhaps you're here to make sure we don't stray from the party line?"

"Yes," said the Doctor smiling just enough to show his perfectly engineered teeth. "It is reasonable to assume that I might be out making propaganda. Although it is true that medical students can be somewhat naive and altruistic, we do our best to eliminate such elements the first year. Other reasons?"

"You could be hoping that we will refer our more lucrative patients to you for surgery," offered a young woman.

"Yes, that is an additional reason and a very good one. Surgeons who devote some time to advertising do pick up a number of lucrative referrals. Other opinions?"

"You might be making a stock offering in one of your business enterprises," guessed a third.

"Ah, ha," said the Doctor, "you're very close. Yes, I have not come to this lowly and aging non-profit for my health. Nor has anyone else it would seem." There was polite laughter. "Now, any first year student knows that doctors could not be trained for the private sector without generous subsidies from the public sector. Pure textbook, am I right? Of course, here among the tired, the old, the poor, and other worthless subcategories of society we doctors have a unique and low-cost opportunity to learn; experiment perhaps so that we can go out into the private sector and gather unto ourselves some serious cash. Now, let me demonstrate," and he turned to the patient on the gurney. "Behold patient Y. Patient Y was admitted to County-State with a mild infection, which responded favorably to antibiotics. Essentially, this patient is cured. However, Patient Y is uninsured, poorly paid, blah, blah, blah, and cannot pay his fee; an all too familiar story at Lincoln County-State. Now, in the old days the patient would be released, and the hospital would get nothing. Correct? Of course, but is it fair? We don't think so, and the Congress of the United States has seen fit to agree with us. From now on, it is perfectly legal to hold patients responsible for non-payment of medical debts. But what use is this to us if the patient is poor?" He paused dramatically picking up a scalpel.

"Tell us!" the students chorused.

"Well, as usual, the free market has presented us with a solution. What, may I ask, does a patient have even if he is absolutely without funds? Think carefully. I think some of the more market-oriented among you can tell me?" He paused. The students appeared confused.

"Dr. Zabones, what is there except material wealth? I mean, what does a poor schmuck like that have except the ability to work. Are you suggesting we make them slaves?"

"That, my friend, is a possible solution but unconstitutional at the present time. Still you are close. It's quite simple, really. If the patient is unprepared to pay cash for services, we will take it in trade." A large screen descended from behind the good doctor as he gestured with his scalpel. "This chart shows the escalating value of human organs. As you can see, a good healthy human heart is worth ten thousand dollars, a kidney, twelve, a liver, sixteen, and so on. This patient you see before you is lucky to make nine thousand dollars a year—before taxes. If he were to be rendered into his components, this healthy male would be worth $150,000 on the market and that's just body parts excluding the value of certain glands, fluids and bone marrow. I trust you are all following me so far? Yes, I thought so. Nurse, may I see the patient's bill?" The stunning nurse handed the surgeon a sheet of paper. "Ah, let's see...$300.00 for the procedure, $1,000 for two days stay, additional charges and interest for non-payment. I see he owes us four thousand. Let me demonstrate: first we consult the daily postings." He turned to consult the screen. "You want to know what's hot for the day. After all, the best organs prices are for those less than twenty four hours old. What looks good. You there," he pointed to a second year student, "what's the hot pick for today?"

"I would say the heart," reflected the student.

"Ah, the heart, but the heart is worth ten thousand and this patient is only in debt to us for four. Can we take a portion of his heart? You there," he pointed at Sylvia. "What's your opinion?"

Sylvia sat stunned. "My o-o-o-o-pin-n-n-ni-on-n-n-n?" she stuttered.

"Yes, how would you solve this particular dilemma?'

"I don't know," she said quickly, but added in a small voice, "have you asked him?"

"Who?" the good doctor demanded imperiously as the class sniggered.

"The patient. He looks like he would like to say something."

"We already know his opinion. He refused. Wouldn't you?" The doctor turned to his audience arms outspread. "Wouldn't anyone? After all, who would pay a debt rightfully incurred if you didn't have to? Certainly not anyone of us, of course. Still, we do what we must do. Back to my question, who can solve this dilemma? What shall the patient contribute?"

"I second the heart," piped up a female intern from the back row.

"Would you now?" the doctor smiled faintly, "and how would you justify taking the man's heart?"

"Clearly, the patient is only four thousand in arrears as of yet, but if he is married and has a family eventually his family's arrears will reach ten thousand. I propose taking the heart, and offering the vict-err subject's family a credit for the remaining six."

"Credit?" asked the Doctor puzzled looking up above. Sylvia followed his glance to a glassed-in cubicle filled with men wearing dark colored suits. "What do our accounting people think about that?"

"Frankly, Doctor," a monotone voice droned over the intercom, "that particular position is financially untenable. Lincoln County-State has an enormous debt burden. Adding sums such as this to long term accounts payable would be...unnonprofitable for the present. But, on the other hand!"

"Continue, sir," invited Zabones.

"If you keep the patient here for 'observation', in eight days additional fees, interest charges and other inflated billings will easily add up to...one second.. ten thousand dollars and 23 cents."

"Really?" smiled the Good Doctor, "but I would so very much like to do the operation today. Wait, here's a thought: what if I take the heart today but you accidentally date the operation as having occurred next week?" There was a pause as the bean counters confabulated..

"Dr. Zabones, we have a deal."

"Excellent and there you have it, madam, the gold stamp of approval from god himself, our bookkeepers," the doctor added with a nod to the galley above and a polite round of applause. "Yes,then," he continued, "if there are no other suggestions?" He waited with his scalpel posed dramatically. "No? Then the heart it is..."

"Wait!!" Sylvia cried out. Dr. Zabones looked up puzzled. The other students stared.

"Yes?" the doctor frowned slightly perturbed at being interrupted.

"Uh,uh, uh..." Sylvia stammered hardly able to speak she was so upset.

'Hey," hissed a nearby first year student, "if you don't have anything intelligent to say..."

"Well?" the doctor added his detached, alienated tone taking on a shade of impatience.

"You're going to cut out that man's heart?!" Sylvia was finally able to burst out.

"Unless you have a more profitable idea," Zabones added genially.

"But he'll die."

The doctor took pause at that. He looked out at his audience. He winked broadly at the administrators above, he almost allowed himself to grin. "Yes, that is true. The man will die. Without a heart, a man must die. But in trade for his heart, this man's family will—no, scratch that, bad for the bottom line—in turn for his heart, this great institution will be able to live, serve, and thrive. Now, wouldn't you call that an altruistic and just settlement?"

"Well, no, I mean unless you asked his permission."

"Didn't you hear, young lady? We don't need his permission. He is legally liable for his debt. Now, if there are no more questions, we will proceed."

"I just don't think it's right," Sylvia insisted.

"You don't think it's right. Will you listen to her, the selfish little bitch," Zabones said reddening under his Palm Beach tan. "Because she doesn't think it's right, an entire hospital must suffer, I must be late for a very important golf game. Why? Who knows? Who cares about this vagabond?. He cannot pay his hospital bills. He promised to pay. We have his signature. What's more important, that he should live and go on welshing, running up bad debts, or that he should give us his heart to someone who at least has the good grace to want to pay for the thing? I don't understand these people. What gall!! To question me? I make three hundred thousand dollars a year. How much do you make, you bitch!!!!" Zabones panted, mouth twisted in rage.

"Can I see your ID?" a security guard demanded of Sylvia. She couldn't see his eyes for the mirrored visor of his riot helmet. He was slapping a truncheon against a metal studded gloved palm.

"ID?" Sylvia gasped as the students drew away from her with muttered, unkind words.

"This way, please," the officer ordered.

"But..." she started to protest. The officer applied a stun gun. She collapsed twitching to the floor.

"I bet they get some good organs out of her," someone snickered as the guard drug Sylvia by her feet out the door.

"You there!" Security ordered a passing orderly in the hall. "Take this woman to the seventh floor."

"Hey, you think I don't have anything better to do?" the overworked orderly started to argue.

"Do it,' Security said threatening the orderly with his gun.

"Okay, okay," grunted the worker lifting Sylvia to the nearest gurney. He pushed her onto the elevator, punched seven, and disappeared for his coffee break. The door slid shut.

"Hey, honey!" a familiar voice greeted her. "Want some chicken?"

The day was cloudy, dark, and cold. Eventually Sylvia got the feeling back in her legs. Those stun guns were nasty. Carl, on the other hand, felt fine. Wilma had snuck him into the kitchen of the doctor's private dining room where he'd eaten a hot meal.

"You know what I wish?" Carl said snapping open a bone he'd saved from his chicken dinner.

"No, what?" Syl asked as Carl stood there sucking marrow.

"Gee, I forgot," Carl's face lit up with a happy grin. "I guess a man who's just had chicken for dinner doesn't need to wish for nothing."

"Oh, Carl," she said getting unsteadily to her feet, "why don't we walk on home?"

"You got it," Carl smiled giving the bone a toss. It clattered to the sidewalk where it was promptly snatched up by the skinniest rat he'd ever seen. "Boy," Carl slapped his knee. "There's one rat who's happy I just ate."

"You bet."

They walked the long gray sidewalks for hours and hours. Chicago's a big town.

"I am so tired," Sylvia finally sighed looking down into an expressway roaring with cars.

"Why don't we crawl inside that box?" Carl asked pointing across the street.

"Fine," she said not caring about anything.

"Hey, hands off!" the box protested. Sylvia about jumped out of her skin.

"Well, excuse me," Carl replied sarcastically.

"Could you keep it quiet out there!" hollered the orange crate next to him.

"Yeah, people are trying to sleep," piped up a youngish dumpster.

"Have a little sympathy!" chimed in some crumpled newspaper.

"We're going, we're going!" Sylvia promised. "Carl, come on." Clearly there was no room in a box in this neighborhood's sidewalks. They kept walking.

They didn't get back to their corner until dawn. The rig was gone.

"Hey," hooted a gleeful Carl finding a bag tacked to the telephone pole, "Korny Kurls." He ripped open the cellophane. A note fluttered to the ground.

**C &S, thanks heaps. Had to make tracks. See you down the road later, P.**

Sylvia felt a tear drip down her cheek. The worry was over. P—that is—Peg, was safe.

"And she left us pop," Carl gloated settling into the deep tall grass. He popped open a can. Korny Kurls and warm sody pop. Her man had it made in the shade.

SEVEN
Sylvia slept over twenty four hours despite the fact it rained. She was tired. She was relieved. Now that Peg had her truck back they could go on with their lives; whatever that was. She was just washing up out of an old tire when Carl came strolling up looking furtive but smug.

"I found something good," he announced glancing left and right.

"A mess of mice?" Syl asked.

"Better. Something we can sell," he leaned in whispering.

"Where!?" she asked grabbing him hard.

"Hey, that hurts."

"What is it, Carl?"

"Aluminum. There paying fifteen cents a pound for it. I found us a couple tons."

"Fifteen cents a pound?" she asked skeptically.

"I'll show you," he said.

Well, they had their aluminum; maybe a couple of hundred pounds of it sitting in the dust on the gutted factory floor. Only problem now was Carl hanging from a cable some two hundred feet up in the air.

"Help!" he yelled his voice echoing off the walls as a swirl of concrete dust settled all around.

"Honey, are you okay?" Syl called up into the soaring roof of the recently shuttered and abandoned factory.

"No."

"What can I do?"

"I don't know."

"Hey, what's going on in here?" cried a voice. Sylvia looked. There was a black man standing in the casement of a busted out window. He stepped in.

"Oh, nothing," Sylvia said trying to kick some dust over their aluminum. At fifteen cents a pound there wasn't a lot to share.

"I heard a noise. Sounds like the whole building's falling down. You better get out of here," Wallace said coming forward.

"Hi," called Carl. Wallace looked up.

"What the heck's he doing?"

"Just hanging," Sylvia said. Wallace shook his head.

"You white folks sure are crazy. Well, you best get out of here. Whole place could come down any minute." He stared at Sylvia who was trying to stand between him and the aluminum. "What you got there?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Uh, you and Tarzan up there better get your nothing and get," he advised her. There was a sudden awful roar. More pieces of the ceiling rained down. Both Wallace and Sylvia dived under a platform.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," Wallace cursed. The entire factory seemed to be raining down on their heads. Sylvia didn't even dare to think. She was a goner for certain. Finally it was quiet. She looked out.

"Carl?" she asked not sure she wanted to know.

"What?" he said. She looked up. He was still hanging up there. Only now it was about forty feet and he was covered in concrete dust.

"You white folks is crazy," said Wallace poking his head out from under the platform quite carefully.

"Hey, Syl," Carl said, "if that ceiling would fall apart just a little bit more, I think I could get out of here."

"Oh, Carl, can't you jump?"

"You kidding? He'll break his legs that high up," Wallace said as he scrambled out over enormous chunks of concrete.

"Sir, couldn't you help?" Sylvia asked. Wallace didn't even pause. "We'll share our aluminum!" He slowed; then turned around with an uneasy eye toward the ceiling.

"Is that what you nuts is hiding?"

"We're not nuts," she replied indignantly.

"The hell you ain't. I been watching you. Living in that teepee. Him wandering around like a crazy Indian."

"Do you want some aluminum or not?" she snapped. He looked at her.

"I guess I do," he replied slowly. "They're paying fifteen cents a pound for it at the Scrap Exchange." He walked back to her keeping an uneasy eye on the ceiling. "How'd he get up there, anyways?" Sylvia explained showing him the ladder. Wallace looked around. Finding the remains of a length of rope, he started climbing. In minutes, Carl was down, but it was two hours later and a couple of more cave-ins before they got their chunk of scrap loaded into Wallace's makeshift cart made out of an old Volkswagen chassis.

"Where we going?" Carl asked taking his turn in the hauling harness.

"The biggest scrap market in Chicago," Wallace informed him. "It's where the whole damn city is bought and sold. But you best just let me do the selling," his eyes narrowed. "Otherwise, we'll walk out of there owing them money."

"Great," Carl agreed smiling. He liked Wallace. He especially liked his long kinky black hair. It would add to his scalp collection rather nicely some day.

The weather was hot and dry. Carl joined some kids who had opened up a fire hydrant, but he had to run to catch up to Wallace and Sylvia who kept trudging towards the market with the single-minded determination of one with a whole lot less than not much.

Other people were trudging the same direction. Ragged people. Most of them skinny struggling under great bales of newspapers and flattened cans. Entire extended families pushed barrows, shopping carts, gurneys, rusted bicycles, rickshaws, and engineless cars piled high with office paper, mixed paper; green and brown glass. Some had scored finding aluminum, others lugged scraps of copper, lead, and steel. One woman had her entire family hitched to a pickup truck dragging a load of scrap wood, People sweated under old cast iron radiators and man hole covers looted from the city's sewers. One man was pulling a bit of bronze statuary stolen from a graveyard. People led cats, and dogs, and skinny chickens. Children carried strings of dead pigeons, fish from the river, frogs, and sewer lizards. They walked, skipped, limped, and pushed putting foot past foot, and wheel to crumbled pavement; everyone of them staring enviously at Wallace, Carl and Sylvia and their wheelbarrow full of aluminum.

"You stay close now," Wallace whispered with a hiss. "Some of these folks would just as soon cut your throats as pass you the salt."

Sylvia watched the straggling lines of dark, plodding, tired looking people. They didn't seem so bad to her. Just poor.

"Do you have family, Wallace?" she asked.

"Who don't?" he replied turning the corner. There it was. The Chicago Scrap Exchange housed in an enormous abandoned factory. "Used to make locomotives here once;" Wallace explained, "then cars, then tanks, and then those damned white folk Russians go and give up. Now it makes nothing. 'Cept a lot of money for some white folks."

"Carl, you stick close!" Sylvia called as the straggling lines converged into the narrow entrance. Jostled, crowded, and bumped; moving faster and faster like a wave of water smashing into a narrow cleft, the grunting, sweating, grasping crowd was sucked into a whirlpool of din and stink. "Sure is noisy here," Sylvia reflected loudly doing all she could to grip the cart's rusted edge. There were shouts, howls, moans, and screams as some were trampled and kicked. Spinning wildly like a lifeboat in a whirlpool, they suddenly popped into a vast, cavernous room.

Sylvia gasped to get her breath. Carl was clutching Wallace's back like a limpet stuck to a rock. One old man in a yellow checkered hat staggered to the side and died as his wife wailed. In the dark and gloom, a little light filtered down from ancient and grimy skylights obscured by a slight mist. There was just the hint of a mild drizzle as tiny specks of pigeons swirled in faraway circles.

"Wow," Carl said his mouth agape. Scalping this many people would take years.

"Everyone okay?" Wallace asked stressed and wide-eyed.

"I've got all my parts," Sylvia smiled checking just to make sure.

"Let's move it," ordered Wallace trotting off. He didn't want to miss the opening bids.

The vast gloomy space was cluttered with various stalls and markets. People sold handicrafts, stray animals, salvaged food and food they'd raised themselves. They sold rags, used clothing, and old clothing made new. Agents from major department stores and the country's most exclusive shops purchased piecework done for pennies an hour. Huge lines of women and men waited to be hired as servants, day labor, and temps.

"How much they pay?" Carl asked.

"Most times you end up paying them," Wallace snorted.

They passed fixers, scavengers, barterers, and thieves. They passed a lively trade in food stamps and discounted welfare checks staffed by US government employees.

"What's that?" Sylvia as Wallace stopped to look over some customized shopping carts equipped with a bed, stove, and porta-potty.

"A place to live on the street. Way too expensive," Wallace snorted. "Anyone who can afford those can afford to pay rent. Let's hustle, let's hustle." The crowds grew thicker as they approached the Scrap Exchange. Passing under a huge banner, Sylvia looked up to read:

Welcome to the Chicago Free Scrap Exchange

"Yeah, free," Wallace snorted derisively again following her glance. "White boys set the prices. You don't like it, you're free to leave."

"I'm hungry," Carl complained pointing towards the ceiling. "Look at all them pigeons just flying around."

"Oh, honey, haven't you had enough of heights for a day?"

"Don't you be worrying about eating right now," Wallace said. "We got more important things."

"Ladies and gentlemen!!" boomed an enormous loudspeaker, "the Chicago Scrap Exchange is now open for trading!!" Lights dimmed as belly dancers holding the day's quotes shimmered across the stage. The vast crowd whooped and groaned as Melrose Amsterdam pushed his well-clad belly into the microphone stand and read:

"Stainless: 45, titanium blend: 3.80, cast iron: .05, copper: 14 up one point from yesterday. We have brass: 17, nickel:.06..."

"What about aluminum!?" Wallace hissed craning his neck at the cavorting belly dancer. "Bitch, stand still. Aluminum, up four points to nineteen!" Wallace suddenly yelled. "You hear that, girl? We're rich." People were staring enviously. "Rich in spirit, I mean," he added in a voice loud enough for all to hear. "Let's praise the Lord!"

"We're rich?" Sylvia replied stunned. Was that possible? She was going to see some real cash money? Well, why not? It happened on television so it must be real. "Sell, sell!" she screamed. The crowd gathered around her stared.

"Stop yelling," Wallace ordered rolling his eyes. "We can't sell till it's our turn."

"Oh..." she said feeling a little pink around the ears as the crowd turned its attention back to Amsterdam and a group of manicured and expensively clothed young men gathered around the stage. The young men represented monstrously huge corporations. They laughed, joked, and flicked their smoked cigarette butts insolently into the crowd. They were the gods who would buy.

Bidding started with stainless at forty five. People from the pits shouted to sell. The price dropped lower. There were more shouts, a note of desperation in the crowd. Prices fell even lower as the young Suits scrambled to take the bids. The shouting grew louder, almost frenzied as prices fell even lower. Finally sellers began to abandon their modest bundles of stainless scrap and walk off. The price had fallen so low they would only be charged a 'handling fee'.

"All bidding in stainless scrap is concluded for the day," intoned Amsterdam bringing the gavel down. "All prices are final. Collect your earnings at the cashier's window."

"Those suckers," Wallace smacked his fist into his palm as angry murmurs swept the crowd. "They did it to us again."

"What?" asked Sylvia.

"Oh, they went running around telling everybody that the price of stainless was way up. We all bring in our stainless and the price hits the floor. They're just jerking us around. You watch, tomorrow it'll be forty five again."

"Ladies and gentlemen!" intoned Amsterdam barely able to keep the smirk off his face. "We now start the bidding on titanium blends."

"Boy, it never surprises you," Wallace turned from the bidding in disgust. "Fucking white people."

"What did I do?" asked Sylvia.

"I'm talking about them," he pointed with a rude gesture towards the stage. "You see those guys?" he asked nodding towards a small group of men wearing pork pie hats and tennis outfits. They watched the crowd nervously.

"Yes."

"They're the Plants. They work for the Man. Price is low, they bid it lower, price is high, they bid it lower. Watch."

The bidding started. Young Suits on stage took bids from the pit. The small group of plants immediately flooded the market with large amounts of titanium. The earlier price sagged.

"It's a lie," hissed Wallace. "They ain't got a thing. All they're doing is driving the price down."

"You mean they're not really selling titanium?" Sylvia asked.

"Hell, no," Wallace said. "It's a fake. You ask them to show you some scrap, they got nothing. Well, we know how to handle this." Slowly, Wallace and other sellers began drifting towards the Plants in a menacing manner. The Plants grew nervous. One or two started to slip away. The price drifted up a little higher. There was some shoving, the occasional kidney punch, but the crowd was more or less calm. More Plants filtered out through the crowd encouraged subtly by well placed blows and kicks. Titanium surpassed the opening bid and continued to soar. On the stage, the Suits made frantic gestures towards the guards who waded into the crowd beating people with their truncheons and the price of Titanium immediately stabilized. Still the damage was done. "Titanium blends are now closed," Amsterdam practically screamed as all the titanium blend in the hall was sold some five points over the opening bid. Cheers rang through the hall as Wallace returned with a grin of satisfaction.

"Let's see if we can repeat that with aluminum."

"Bingo!" someone cried as Carl watched from another part of the hall with a mixture of fascination and envy. The lucky winner for the day would take home a twenty pound sack of potatoes.

"Yeah, I was on welfare once," Wallace continued. "Lasted a week. You see, there's no way you can live on that pitiful amount. They caught me selling tin cans. Told me I was driving a Cadillac even. Yeah, a Cadillac wheelbarrow."

'You get kicked off welfare for having a Cadillac?" interrupted a skinny youth just behind. "Hey, that happened to me."

"Happened to me also," added a large Hispanic woman with a baby in her arms. "A Cadillac," she laughed. "I can't even drive."

"It's a joke like I said," said Wallace with a cynical grin. "Only people who is supposed to get a handout from the government is them giant corporations."

"Yeah, what do you know about giant corporations?" sneered a scruffy looking man standing next to a brass radiator.

"Hey, I used to work for one."

"Get out of here," scoffed the scruffy man. Several in the group smiled. Trumpets sounded. Trading had resumed!

"Hey, Reggie," the young Suit asked the Suit standing next to him, "what're you doing tonight?" Reginald Alfred Woods didn't even bother to glance at his neighbor. He yawned. "Buford," his neighbor blushed. "Buford Allen Shoat. I was in the class after you."

"Old Chicago U?" Reginald asked with the faintest of almost non-existent interest.

"Hubba Dubba Do," Buford grinned giving Reggie the old school cheer.

"Oh," Reginald sighed as he checked his gold Paganini wristwatch in order to admire his reflection in its face. God, what an ordeal it was to be stuck in this filthy ghetto. What he wouldn't do for a transfer to the Firm's shining new office fortress downtown.

"It's a zoo, huh, Reggie?" Buford said slapping Reggie's back with undue familiarity. "Hey, like to snort some toot?

"Sorry, I can't toot presently, Buford," Reggie said quite fatigued. "I had to have an operation on my nose."

"Really?" Buford said with a note of envy. Of course a mover like Reggie Woods would have lost his septum by now. He'd probably been tooting coke since prep school.

"So if you don't mind?" Reggie asked making a dismissive motion with his hand.

"No problem," Buford smiled eager to cultivate a relationship with the socially well-connected Reggie "But say, Reggie, I've been meaning to ask you, wouldn't you like to date my sister?"

"Your sister?" Reggie replied as if he just been asked to eat in a restaurant with less than three stars. Buford showed him her picture.

"That's her, not bad looking. She's available tonight."

"I'm married," Reggie reminded him as he considered the picture of a pretty fifteen year old girl.

"She can meet you after work."

"Well, I do have fifteen minutes before I catch my train home," Reggie allowed..

"I'll call her up," Buford gushed.

"And how should I show my appreciation for your services, Shoat?" Reggie drawled. He didn't like to waste any time. "An introduction to my club? A dinner invite? Depending, of course, on your sister "

"She'll do what she's told. But there are some things I'd like to discuss. We could have lunch."

"I'm quite busy. We'll exchange a word or two. But only if I find the services of your sister satisfactory."

"See you then," Buford grinned strolling off. Jeepers, what a coup! Reggie Woods, molest his sister; the folks were gonna be proud.

"You'll do what?" Carl couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

"I'll break your arm."

"But only if I pay?"

"You got it," smiled Breakbones Bob matter-of-factly.

"Heck," said Carl, "I could fall from that ceiling and do it for free." Breakbones stood back and regarded Carl's arm thoughtfully.

"Sure, but could you do it as good as me? Check out these pictures," he said flashing a few at Carl. "That's Sammy Sparechange. Check out that arm." Carl looked at the picture several seconds aghast.

"That's someone's arm?"

"It was. One of my best jobs. Guess how much he makes a day?"

"Makes?" Carl asked mildly puzzled. "How could you make anything with an arm like that? You couldn't even fix a truck."

"What the hell you talking about making, fixing, and all that? That sounds like work. There's no work. Least nothing you get paid for. An arm like that is for begging."

"Begging?"

"Jeez, buddy, don't you know nothing? You know, making people feel sorry for you, panhandling, all that. Check out these pictures. That's Amanda. Before she came here, she could walk perfectly. Now she has to drag herself down the street. And this, that's Tommy Alvarez. Now, normally your minority groups don't do well at this trade. But look what I did to his head. Something huh? How could you look at a guy like this and not give him a few cents?"

"Man," Carl winced. "That must hurt."

"No shit, Sherlock. Hurts like hell. But that's the game. You got to show you're suffering, or nobody pays." Carl stood there and considered the pictures. They looked terrible. Still, it might be a good way to pay the Korny Kurl bill and buy some motorcycles magazines.

"How much does it cost?"

"It ain't cheap, buddy. Got any money?"

"Nope."

"In that case, we work out a deal. I do the breaking, you give me a percentage of your take 'til we're square."

"Ohh..." Carl nodded.

"In fact," Breakbones offered, "I can do a number on you right now."

"Like what?" Carl asked feeling curious.

"Well," said Breakbones considering Carl's face, "you're kind of a dumb looking guy. That helps. I could saw off one leg."

"Just one?" Carl responded.

"I could do both, but my percentage is gonna be more."

"What about my ear?" Carl wondered. "I always thought they were kind of big. Could you cut one off?"

"Buddy, I can cut off an ear, slice off your nose, poke out your eye. Anything you want. But maybe you want to start a little slow. If I looked as dumb as you, I'd try limping first, maybe a bit of drool. You don't want to overdo it."

"Like this?" Carl asked limping around.

"You got it," Breakbones called after him encouragingly. "Make 'em feel sorry for you. And don't waste time on any rich people. The only folks who really give money are those folks who are just a little better off than you."

Excited, Carl limped like the devil and drooled like a baby. He hobbled over to the used motorcycle magazines.

"Hey, you!" snapped an angry vendor with enormous bosoms. "You're getting the magazines all wet."

"Please, Miss," Carl asked hoping he sounded pitiful enough. "I really could use a motorcycle magazine. Couldn't you be nice?"

"Fat chance," she laughed raucously taking some chewed gum from her mouth. She stuck it behind her ear.

"My wife died."

"Who cares?"

"My dog got run over."

"So?"

"I can't get a job."

"Beat it, you're not gettin' any motorcycle magazine."

"Then how about some spare change?" Carl asked not ready to admit defeat.

"I'll let you have this," she sneered taking the gum from behind her ear. She threw it hitting him in the eye.

"Doggone," he blazed. "I'll take your scalp!"

"You and who's army?" she smiled disdainfully. Reaching across the stacks of magazines, she grabbed him by the collar and tossed him about fifteen feet.

"Hey, you keep that up," smiled Breakbones Bob looking down at Carl, "you can get your bones broke for free." Carl staggered off feeling dizzy. Maybe begging was not his thing.

"Look, Sis, this is important to my career. And hey, if he likes you, well who knows what can happen? Come on, will you stop complaining? Life's tough when you're nouveau riche." Buford snapped the cell phone off. Damn, he was having doubts about his sister, the spoiled brat. Maybe better to ask his girlfriend, she'd be more reasonable.

"Boy, am I glad I got out of lead," Wallace remarked watching gangs of near naked men sweating and straining over stacks of old batteries.

"Price no good?" Sylvia asked.

"Look at them poor suckers," Wallace exclaimed, "breaking their backs; getting slopped with acid--lucky to be crawling in two years. Oh, no, lead ain't for me. Besides, the price crapped out after they changed the gasoline."

Sylvia waited impatiently for their turn. Around them sellers moaned or hollered ecstatically depending on the prices of their particular type of scrap. What would people do when abandoned factories and slums were finally picked clean of every bit of their plumbing, wiring, and old machines? Then what?

"It's time," Wallace poked her. Pre-recorded trumpets blasted their ears, drums rolled. Amsterdam, perspiring profusely, wiped his brow.

"Aluminum at 15," Amsterdam announced sweating profusely. Wallace had already scoped the crowd carefully. Aside from the usual bags of crushed cans, there was little here that could affect the price.

"We'll take it at 19 like you said ten minutes ago!" Wallace shouted. Reggie stared in surprise. Aluminum was his province and there was no way he was paying 19 for anything.

"How many pounds?" Reggie asked trying to stall as he anxiously scanned the audience for his shills.

"250 pounds!" Wallace cried out in a loud voice. There was instant silence in the crowd. 250 pounds was quite a haul. The Suits gathered together to discuss the matter urgently.

"What's going on?" Victor Stanfield Fish hissed.

"Damned if I know," responded Paul Allen Cook the third.

"Is this for real?" Buford grinned.

"He's killing my commission rate," complained Reggie. "Nineteen cents a pound was strictly sucker bait. What happened to our plants?"

"You'd better do something, Reggie," Amsterdam hissed with cold emphasis. "They don't like it upstairs when the sucker bait turns into the real price. Now we already took a bath on titanium today. Fix this."

Reggie's guts grew icy cold. Sweat ran down the sleeves of his hand-tailored imported Brazilian shirt. He couldn't let this scum, this low-life, this Prole get the best of him. "Did I say fifteen!?" he screeched loudly. "I meant ten."

"What the hell's going on!" Wallace yelled. The crowd was in an uproar.

"Aluminum trading is now suspended," Reggie added hammering away with his gavel.

"For how long!?" Wallace boomed out his voice full of raucous confidence.

"Uh, one hour," Reggie replied practically running from the podium. He had bought himself some time.

"You see that?" Wallace grinned turning to face the people pressed around him. "We got those chicken shits on the run." A roar went up from the crowd. Buoyed by Wallace's small showing of resistance, trading in other categories heated up. Dissatisfied with low offerings, sellers held out for more. Scrap prices stabilized, inched higher. Suits panicked.

"You got to do something!" they begged Amsterdam. "We've got green fees, mortgages, credit card debt, alimony. They're killing us."

Grimly, Amsterdam made calls. Maybe it was time to shut down the entire exchange, not just aluminum, in order to teach the Proles a lesson.

"Impossible," an icy voice whispered from an extremely private and secure line. "What with capitalization at catastrophic levels in the extraction sector, our clients are extremely dependent on the further cannibalization of infrastructure and plants. You know the situation's delicate. Do you want to provoke a worldwide economic crisis?"

Amsterdam hung up his ulcer acting up again. What with commissions down, a huge bar bill, a demanding mistress—not to mention his spendthrift wife and three extremely spoiled kids—the last thing he needed was another worldwide economic crisis. He turned to face the pale Suits, expression grim.

"What do we do, Mr. Amsterdam?" Suits bleated anxiously their faces no longer portraits in complacent superiority. This was a serious inconvenience at best.

Amsterdam stood there watching this gaggle of corrupt, incompetent young corporate aristocrats. Fighting back an inclination to be ill, he sucked in his stomach and took some pills.

"We can't shut it down, gentleman. That's the word from above. The fate of the free world is in the balance."

"I'm taking you to court!" Stanfield Fish suddenly squealed. "I was guaranteed this position would be low-stress."

"Shut up, Fish!" Buford Allen Shoat cried out giving the much smaller man a dramatic shove. As a skilled rung-climber of the social ladder, he seldom missed a chance to make points. Still, a confused murmur rose from the ranks. Buford had laid hands on a higher ranking member of the pecking order. Was physical contact to be allowed?

'That's the fucking spirit, Buford!" Amsterdam cried seeing an opportunity to buck up their sagging morale. "Look at Rockefeller in Colorado. Did he let a bunch of striking miners cost him money? Hell no, he shot men, women, and children for the bottom line, and he was already stinking rich. Or Carnegie at Homestake. The proles give you trouble, you give them a taste of hot lead. What's happened to us, men? We've got to grab ourselves by the balls and remember the old fighting spirit of American capitalism."

"What the hell's he talking about?" asked a newly graduated frat boy.

"All I know is the Rockefellers are extremely rich and socially well-connected," replied Fish.

"How rich?" Buford wanted to know wondering how he could find a way to suck up to one.

"Are you suggesting we start shooting from here?" an effeminate voice giggled nervously.

"Mr. Amsterdam's got a point," Reggie interjected manfully as he strode about the stage. "Are we going to let the likes of them reduce our commissions? We, with our breeding, education and superior status? Of course not, we are clearly—" and he tripped sprawling offstage. The crowd covered him like a wave, boiling and breaking as the horrified Suits watched on.

"They'll eat him," Buford whispered in eager expectation as the mob surged and swirled.

Sylvia was shocked when Reggie disappeared into the crowd. The young Suits, posing, smirking, and strutting, had made her feel small, insignificant... unworthy. She ached for their approval. Those young gods living loftily above life's problems, six hundred thousand dollar homes, and three or four expensive imported cars. You could bet they never ate puppy dog; only the best in hand-rubbed imported steak tartar. Was it any wonder that they, in their small numbers, commanded the vast majority of the world's wealth? Clearly, they deserved her pitiful aluminum at the lowest price possible. Fruitlessly, she threw herself against the Mob, but her Prince had disappeared.

Wallace, too, had been watching the Suits. Many years ago, as a young man, he had believed a black man could work his way to a piece of the American dream. In inferior schools, with out-of-date texts, few books, but plenty of basketballs, he had worked, struggled, and studied. With the help of a few good, dedicated teachers and despite the best efforts of burned-out, embittered hacks, he had graduated and won a scholarship awarded to a handful of talented but poor minority students who would be co-opted by the system. Contrary to the college's expectations, he had not flunked out within the first three or four weeks despite relentless encouragement. Ignoring prejudice and the constant silent derision of his upper class peers, he worked and studied almost 16 hours a day until finally, four years later, he was awarded his degree.

"I got it now," he remembered thinking, "I got that dream. I'll be driving a Porsche 911, I'll be living in a condo off the Lake, Armani suits; maybe a country place."

But while other classmates, classmates with lower grade averages, lower levels of intelligence, but white skin and higher social status were welcomed into firms controlled by families, friends, and in-laws, he could find nothing. Nothing, that is, but the lowliest of jobs: janitorial, dish washing; sweeping the streets.

After a year of fruitless searching, he returned to his old college and asked an old instructor for help. A month later he was offered a job by an enormous Chicago financial institution, which had made its beginnings as a lynch pin of industrial development in the American Midwest. Now they sold insurance, annuities, and other instruments of finance.

"You come with solid recommendations, Wallace," the Director of Personnel told him. "Very good, come in early Monday morning." Smiling he made a note and passed Wallace a card.

"Three a.m.?" Wallace said noting the starting time. The Director smiled once more and waved him on his way.

Wallace showed up for work at 2:45 a.m. that Monday at the main entrance to the huge, granite skyscraper. He was directed to the back by a guard. After pounding for several minutes on the armored door, it finally swung open with a laborious creaking.

"Yes?" an aging but dignified looking black man asked.

"I'm the new man," Wallace announced a hint of pride in his voice.

"I see," said the old man slowly without smiling, "you're here to work yourself to the top."

'You got that right," Wallace agreed aggressively stepping right in. The old man smiled ironically motioning for Wallace to follow. He entered a long flight of narrow stairs that led three floors down to a dank, dimly lit basement. A perfect place for a mugging, Wallace realized grateful his guide was so ancient. The old man pushed open a battered wooden yellow door. Wallace followed entering a large low-ceilinged room with drip marks on the walls and three inches of water on the floor.

"Let's give a big welcome to Wallace," announced the old man in a surprisingly strong voice. "He's here to work himself to the top just like us." A ragged round of applause scattered across the room. Wallace looked out to a sea of black male faces in ages ranging from a year or two older than him to pretty damned old.

"George," said his guide offering a hand. "Chicago University Class of '24. Sadly, Class of '25,'26,'27 are all deceased. Otherwise, the rest are retired. You'll be getting that desk over there," he pointed to a desk in the far corner. "Sorry about the water. It's the Sanitary Canal leaking through the wall. You'll find some rubber boots at your desk."

"But..." Wallace stammered."

"Yes, sir," the old man responded in sad amusement, "you'll be finding the top black graduates of your college of every year in this room. It's a tradition with this firm. Hire the best black men in the city so they can work themselves right to the top of their careers."

Wallace sat at his battered desk all day in leaky rubber boots alternating between a desire to storm right up the stairs and a determination to stick it out, work like hell, and get himself out of here to the floors upstairs. Clearly it was due to some personal failing all these old black losers continued to sit here up to their ankles in dark water year after year.

It was a battle he would wage daily for the next four years. Class of '24 finally died at his desk, and Wallace was able to move to a higher level where at least he could keep his feet dry.

It was the last formal job he would ever have. On the fifth year, the Firm automated the entire mail operation and put every one of them out of work. Most of his former colleagues had died, fallen ill, or committed suicide once they were laid off. Some were in jail, a small few had found jobs, most were on the street like himself.

"You know, there were more brains in that mail room than the next sixty top floors combined," he said aloud.

"Huh?" Sylvia had asked shaken from her mesmerized state.

"Hey, what happened to that Suit?" Wallace demanded realizing he'd been daydreaming.

The crowd burped Reggie back onto the stage. Sylvia gasped. The most arrogant, suave, and superior Suit of the entire Suit tribe stood there knees knocking missing all accoutrements symbolizing his exalted station clad only in shit-stained tattered imported Italian silk boxer shorts.

Quickly the Suits circled their wagons shielding him from view. In his defeat and humiliation, so were they all. How could they pretend they were twice, thrice, twenty times better than the people below them. The emperor must be dressed!

"Jeez," Sylvia said as if waking from a dream as Reggie was hustled beyond the curtains mumbling something incoherent regarding his mommy and security options. Amsterdam reproached the guards with hot fury.

"I want you to open fire."

"For what? The guy tripped," exclaimed the Sergeant of the Guards.

"I write your paycheck," Amsterdam frothed.

"Look," said the Sergeant spreading his gloved hands wide. "I'd love to accommodate you, but if we open fire on this crowd, who's gonna bring you scrap?"

"He's a got a point there, Boss," agreed Buford. "I would consider the economic ramifications." Buford was barely able to conceal his smirk. Reggie would never be able to live this down. His vaunted social superiority was history. Buford made a quick mental note to have his girlfriend cancel her date with the humiliated little prig.

"I want them to pay," Amsterdam fumed.

"Don't worry, sir," assured the Sergeant. "They'll pay. I'm stepping up routine harassment and beatings. They'll be sorry they touched a Suit."

"Life is so strange," Sylvia remarked thoughtfully sucking her front teeth. She had certainly learned an important lesson here; what, she wasn't quite sure.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Amsterdam announced from the safety of a bullet proof, glassed-in booth as the remaining Suits huddled in a close knot. "The Chicago Scrap Exchange is pleased to announce that Toxoid Industries has just discovered an amazingly new cheap and readily available substitute for aluminum. Aluminum bidding is now renewed."

"Those lying fuckers," Wallace stormed as the price of aluminum started to fail. "Stop," he yelled running through the crowd. "It's a trick, pay-back time for stealing the Honky's watch."

Suddenly the crashing price skidded to a halt. Orders for aluminum scrap were flowing in from all over North America. The price crawled at first, then galloped. With no sellers and lots of buyers who knew nothing of Amsterdam's false claim, Aluminum hit the highest price it had seen in years.

"Now what, smart guy?" Amsterdam demanded of Buford. The Toxoid announcement had been Buford's idea.

"It's that black bastard," Buford snarled helplessly desperate to deflect criticism. "You do what you can for these people, they just take, take, take."

"Mr. Amsterdam?" a frightened looking office manager stuttered, "it's the Federal Reserve." Amsterdam took the phone blood pounding in his ears. Nervously he lit a cigarette as a bland, but bone chilling voice droned quietly in his ear. When the Chairman was finished Amsterdam feebly passed the phone back to the manager as he clutched at that spot on his chest where most people had a heart.

"Problem, sir?" Buford wondered more frightened than he'd ever been in his life.

"Problem? Problem?" Amsterdam gasped. "Yes, there's a small problem. Get that nigger now!"

"You heard him!' Buford screamed hysterically at the chief guard. "Take him out."

"You want me to walk right into that crowd and grab a guy in broad daylight?" said the Sergeant. "That's not in the book. We got to follow him, get his address, set him up with some drugs."

"We don't have time for the book , it's gone too far!" Amsterdam yelled. "Did you know how Wall Street's reacted to this? Activate Emergency Plan C."

"Emergency Plan C?" Buford stiffened. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" snapped Amsterdam. "Offer the son-of-a-bitch a job."

Feeling a cold bony claw on his forearm, Wallace faced an aging alcoholic reeking of stale beer.

"I've got a message for you," the old drunk quavered handing Wallace a gold embossed envelope. Wallace took it gingerly.

"What's that?" Sylvia asked.

"It's Plan C," Wallace chuckled darkly. "They're looking to buy me off." He opened the envelope carefully—might be worth something to a gold-embossed envelope dealer—and read the message typed neatly on expensive onion skin paper. "Uh, huh, I stop telling people what to do, I get a job, or a cash settlement, or some combination of both."

"Oh, Wallace, I'm so happy for you," Sylvia gushed tears coming to her eyes. "You've finally made it to the top."

Wallace looked into her eyes strangely. "What, you think I'm going to take it? Sell out you and Big Chief, my friends, my neighbors, just so I can get my share of the pie?"

"But..." she said unable to understand.

"Yeah, I know it's the American Way. Trouble is, I fell for that load of shit once already; I ain't falling for it again. Uh, uh, either we all is benefiting together, or none of us is. Ain't that right, Folks? Either these motherfuckers start treating us like human beings, or none of us is selling."

"Yay, Wallace!" they howled dancing, hooting, and insulting the cowering Suits on stage.

"We got to organize!" Wallace yelled. "We got to get together. Why should we let those mothers set the price where they like? We're doing some price-setting ourselves."

"Situation Red," a tense-faced security guard reported to Amsterdam just as an expensively tailored man surrounded by a phalanx of black-suited guards strode in. It was Morgan Pierpoint Attleburg, Federal Reserve Trouble-Shooter for the Chicago region.

"Oh Jesus," Amsterdam quailed. "Mr. Attleburg," he rushed forward trying to smile. "What on earth brings you here?"

"Your incompetence," Attleburg hissed as he checked his appearance in a small compact mirror. "Bring me the troublemaker. Now!"

Wallace turned at the touch of a bony claw.

"They'd like to see you," the Drunk wheezed.

"Send them this," Wallace grinned giving the drunk the finger.

"He said to give you this," the alcoholic old man said giving Attleburg the finger. For his impertinence, he was drug to the basement and severely beaten. Enraged, Attleburg resisted ordering Wallace's summary execution. For this, a bold stroke was needed. He strode quickly to the stage.

"Good afternoon," Attleburg's voice boomed out over the seething crowd. "How are all you fine, patriotic Americans? You know," he chuckled softly in a soothing, soporific, paternal tone learned at the Ronald Reagan Institute for Public Dupification. "Looking out at your intelligent, well-informed faces, I'm reminded of a certain story." He droned on; the crowd felt itself getting sleepy. Wallace himself could barely stay awake. He was gradually overwhelmed by an urge to despise women, rail about welfare abuse, and condemn public schools.

"Maybe I ought to change my registration to Republican," he had just begun to wonder and that was his wake up call.. "Hey, wait a minute," he said realizing that the people standing all around had this glazed look the same as drunks and drug addicts. "WAIT JUST A GODDAMNED MINUTE!!!" he yelled. There was silence. The crowd awoke.

"Damn," Attleburg cursed under his breath. He had lost control.

"Don't you be listening to this white, snake-charming, suit-wearing motherfucker," Wallace told the crowd. "He's just pulling a con."

"You there, yes you," Attleburg called out in his most reasonable, Reaganesque tones. "You seem to have something to add to our friendly discussion. Wouldn't you like to join me on stage?"

"No, I motherfucking would not," Wallace replied. "I know the score. I'm staying down here with my people where it's safe."

"Way to go, Wallace. Right on. Show those bastards," his neighbors said crowding around.

"Not even to talk about jobs, Wallace?" Attleburg inquired. "Wouldn't you, and your friends like to hear about economic revitalization, jobs, housing, jobs, opportunity, jobs, money, jobs? We do have a plan."

"Jobs?" everyone repeated over and over again. "Did the man say jobs?"

"Don't you be listening to that lying, scumsucking, Republican," Wallace warned them, but now his voice suddenly seemed unreasonable and shrill.

"Jobs, jobs, jobs," Attleburg repeated again and again as if intoning a mantra. "Jobs, jobs for you, jobs for your children; jobs for your neighbors and friends. We have a plan for jobs. Now, Wallace, won't you join me and talk about all these jobs we have?"

"I will not," Wallace stated emphatically.

"Jobs, jobs, jobs," the Guards, Suits, and clerks refrained. "Jobs are wonderful for everyone."

"Wallace, please," smiled Attleburg in his best grandfatherly manner developed in years of acting school at the finest universities. "Aren't jobs important to you and your friends?"

"Fuck You!!" Wallace screamed.

"Hey, come on, man," a man standing next to him said. "Won't cost you nothing to hear what the man says."

"The man's lying," Wallace insisted.

"We could really use some jobs," said a tired looking mother holding her baby.

"It's all BS," Wallace insisted, but by now, everyone in the room was chanting the same thing.

"Jobs, jobs, jobs, jobs," the walls boomed. Even Sylvia had joined in.

"Jobs, jobs, jobs."

"Let me go," Wallace cried as endless hands carried him to the stage as if a stick on the incoming tide.

"Jobs, jobs, jobs," the voices chanted as smirking guards reached down to pull him to the stage—Attleburg's narrow, skeletal, aristocratic face leering at him as through a wide-angle lens.

"Welcome, Mr. Wallace," Attleburg cried with a flourish as the crowd wildly clapped, cheered, and wept. Finally, they had come to the River Jordan of Jobs, Jobs, Jobs. Oh thank you Jesus. We are saved!

"Wallace, Wallace, Wallace," the masses' booming chant echoed from the walls.

"Why don't you just come this way?" Attleburg motioned to the rear of the stage.

"The hell I will," Wallace roared good and scared. "You got any talking to do, we do it right here."

"Certainly," Attleburg smiled triumphantly into the microphone, "we can have a little chat here, on the stage, in front of everyone. Or..," and he paused dramatically, "you and I can go into the backroom and talk some job turkey about jobs. Now what do you people think?" he asked the crowd.

"Job turkey! Job turkey! Talk! Talk! Talk!" was the resounding consensus of the crowd. Everybody knew from Hollywood that the real important stuff in life always took place in little crowded, smoky backrooms with a bunch of rich white guys drinking single malt whiskey smoking Cuban cigars. "Cut us a deal, Wallace. Go, boy, go," they cheered. Wallace's guts sank to the floor. Looking grimly over the tired, the hungry, the poor, he knew right then that he was truly and complexly fucked.

"All right," he agreed bleakly, "we'll go the back room."

"Have a cigar, my friend," Attleberg grinned handing Wallace a fine imported Cuban stogie. The crowd cheered again.

"Now the motherfucker's gonna sell us out," a cynic standing next to Sylvia scowled. A punch was thrown. Sylvia joined in kicking the cynic's ribs.

Wallace followed Attleburg to the back of the stage. As soon as Wallace was out of sight of the stage, he tripped over a guard's foot.

"Oh, let me help you up, sir," another guard smiled accidentally dropping his baton on Wallace's face."

"Are you quite comfortable....Wallace?" Attleburg stared down at him after Wallace was roughly thrown into a chair.

"Go on, get it over with," Wallace said waiting for the next blow. "I know the score."

"Really?" replied Attleburg icily as a Suit handed him a file. "You certainly act curiously for one who knows the score. Hmm, I see by your fingerprints you have been to Chicago University; did very well, at least, in school."

"You know how it is being black."

'Fortunately, I don't," Attleburg shuddered. "But please understand this is nothing personal. Unfortunately the economy requires a large group of people who must be permanently unemployed and you Blacks happen to fit the bill. You're an intelligent man, certainly you knew that? Unfortunately, Wallace, you might have a job now if you had done a couple of things differently. For instance, have you ever considered becoming Republican, attending a politically correct Church, writing the occasional book, perhaps, denouncing black behavior, black women, black propensity to drug addiction et cetera?"

"Life ain't never been so bad I had to do that."

"Well, Wallace, it might get that bad for you. Very quickly. Now, let's get down to business. Do you realize how much money you've cost this organization? I have the figures."

"You been cheating us, we want a better price."

"Watch your mouth, Boy," a guard muttered making a threatening gesture with his stunning device.

"Wallace," Attleburg went on patiently, "we don't cheat, we allow the market to set the price."

"Come on, I know what you're doing and you do too. I got a motherfucking degree in economics. That market's about as free as a black man at a Klan convention."

"I wouldn't know," Attleburg smiled. "But if you'd like to know what happens to a black man at a Klan convention, I suggest you speak with some of our security personnel." He leaned forward. "Let's dispense with the inessentials, shall we? You know the score, we know the score. All that's left is to make a deal. Now, we have several options on the table in front of us. One, you can be the sort of black man that is useful to us, and you can have a job. Two: we can make you a small settlement. As it happens, a new shipment of very pure cocaine has just arrived at O'Hare this morning. You may have one kilogram of it to distribute. Number three, yes, number three option is you leave the city and go be poor somewhere else. Number four option is...well, it's messy, but I can assure you it works very well."

"So let me get this straight," Wallace said counting on his fingers, "I can sell out, I can sell drugs, I can get the hell out of Dodge, or I can die?"

"Essentially correct."

"Okay, I pick three."

"Fine then."

"But we pick up my family?"

"Certainly. We'll send a helicopter."

"A helicopter? Are you for real?"

"Wallace," Attleburg smiled genially, "my wife uses a government helicopter for shopping. It's not such a big deal." He stood facing the guards, "Take him to the helicopter, pick up his family at this address, and then deliver him to Nixon field for immediate transshipment to Haiti."

'Haiti?" Wallace gulped. "That's one of the poorest countries in the world."

"Look on it as balancing out the refugee problem, Wallace," Attleburg chuckled. "Of course, we have those other options."

"Jesus," Wallace shook his head following the guards, "you guys got an attitude."

Attleburg returned to the stage. Smiling before the assembled crowd, he held up his hands.

"Friends, I am pleased to announce we have a deal." Although the Suits clapped politely and the guards set off their automatic weapons, the crowd itself was ambivalent. Deal? What kind of deal? Where was Wallace now?

"What happened to Wallace?!" a thin redheaded woman shouted, a thin child suckling at her teat.

"Wallace?" Attleburg smiled. "Why, young Mr. Wallace showed management potential. We gave him a job." He checked his Rolex. "At this moment our new manager should be winging his way to a new position in North Carolina at a recently relocated manufacturing plant."

"You mean he sold out?" cried a thin black man with an 'X' stenciled on his shirt. "He ain't gonna help us?"

"I believe that would be correct," Attleburg smiled a faint lupine cast to his face. A low but deep groan churned throughout the gathered faces. Some looked to the sky for help that would never arrive, others looked to their neighbors. Most looked to their small bundles of cans, pipes, batteries, and gave them a small kick. What was the use? The Suits had won, as usual. Now they'd be paid the lowest price—if anything. People shuffled dispirited away.

"Great work, Mr. Attleburg," Buford said bowing deferentially to the expensively suited man.

"Of course."

"Of course," Buford repeated nodding enthusiastically. "Of course, it is unfortunate a busy man like yourself had to interrupt his day like this."

"It most certainly is," Attleburg agreed haughtily. "I did have plans."

"I do have several suggestions on how to avoid such a situation again," Buford interjected quickly. "I could explain them on the way to your helicopter."

"The helicopter is busy for the moment. Walk me to my car."

With furrowed brows, Amsterdam watched Buford exit with Attleburg. He had not survived this many years on the floor caving in to backstabbing, butt-kissing punks like that.

"You there!" he called out to a guard fully decked out in street armor and carrying a sub machine gun.

"Yes, sir," the guard saluted striking himself energetically in the head.

"Like to make a little extra money after work?" Amsterdam inquired with a significant glance at Buford. The guard grinned.

"Hey, where you guys taking me?" Wallace asked his voice rising in concern as the copter veered away from the city. "My neighborhood is that way."

"We're taking a little shortcut over the Lake," shouted the Guard seated beside him.

"That ain't no shortcut." Wallace exclaimed. "This ain't the first time I been in a helicopter."

"Relax," said the other guard handcuffing Wallace's ankle to a hundred pound sack of sand. "You'll be out soon enough. Any last words?"

Sylvia stood on the great floor. Here and there lay small piles of now-worthless metals. In revenge for their recent uppity behavior, the Suits had dropped the price of everything to a fraction of a cent above zero.

"Hey," Carl grinned carrying a string of pigeons killed by stray bullets.

"Hey, yourself," Sylvia replied dejectedly.

"Where's Wallace?" Carl asked.

"I guess he sold us out."

"So we got any money for motorcycle magazines?"

"Honey, we're broke."

Wandering among the emptying stalls, they came to the end of a long line. "They giving away free motorcycle magazines?" Carl asked excitedly.

"This is the line for thin black women," a thin black woman explained patiently. "The thin white men stand in that line over there."

"So where do the Indians stand?" Carl asked.

"And what are we standing in line for?" Sylvia wanted to know.

"Jobs, honey. You want to work?"

"I thought there weren't any jobs."

"There's jobs that pay something, and there's these. You do what you got to do."

"What kind of jobs?" Sylvia asked.

"You'll find out," the woman said turning to talk to the thin black woman standing next to her.

"I guess we'll just wait and see," Sylvia said going to the line for thin white women. Anything was better than nothing as far as she was concerned.

"Step right up, step right up," cried a Suit in wearing an Italian hand-painted silk tie. "Travel to foreign countries. Work as housecleaning help. Uniforms provided. How about you, Miss," the Suit asked Sylvia, "like a job cleaning harems in Saudi Arabia?"

"It sounds interesting," Sylvia said considering. "Have you got anything for my husband?"

"Next please," cried the Suit not giving her another glance.

"Step right up, step right up," cried a Suit to the line of thin, white men. "Men needed to crawl into tight places. We supply the special t-shirt. How about you, buddy?" the Suit looked at Carl. "Like a nice job cleaning chemical pipelines?"

"Depends on the pay."

"Hey, we pay what everybody else pays," said the Suit. "Five bucks an hour."

"Five bucks an hour?" said Carl ready to sign up.

"Hey, pass this one up, Jack," a thin white man whispered in Carl's ear. "They expect the chemicals to kill you before you get your first paycheck. My cousin didn't last a week."

"You're kidding," Carl said glaring at the Suit. "I ought to take his scalp."

"Step right up, step right up," cried another Suit in an Italian hand-painted silk tie. "We got your jobs, we got your jobs right here. Operate a sewing machine?" he asked Sylvia.

"I learned how in home economics. Even got an 'A'."

"An 'A'? All right," beamed the suit. "We got you a job right here. Sewing. You'd be working in the world of high fashion. You get paid by the piece."

"How much?" Sylvia asked innocently.

"Depends on how fast you work," smiled the Suit. "We got one woman, she's up to twelve bucks a week."

"Uh, thank you," Sylvia said politely moving on.

"Step right up, step right up," an Army Suit cried. "We got your jobs, we got your jobs. How about you, mister?" the Army Suit asked Carl. "You got the balls to be a man?"

"I think so," Carl said checking inside his pants.

"You want to travel to foreign countries and kill people?" the Army Suit asked.

"Maybe," Carl replied noncommittally.

"The US Army has a proud an honorable tradition, son. Yep, from the very first time we slaughtered some Indians to..." Carl jumped him letting off a whoop. A forest of skinny white male arms pulled him away.

"I'll show him who's an Indian!" Carl yelled as the Army Suit quickly retreated.

"Jobs, we got your jobs right here," cried out the next Suit. "Work in special recreation camps. Wear fancy clothes. Lie on your back all day."

"Sounds like a pretty good job to me," Sylvia said.

"So," said the Suit giving her the look over, "you want to be a Tiffany girl. I guess we could make that happen. Any allergies to penicillin?"

"I don't think so," Sylvia replied thoughtfully. "But I am married."

"Hey," said the Suit, "plenty of Tiffany girls are married. It's not like you're going to jail. Now, let's see," he said looking down a checklist, "you got to be at least a thirty six C. Pull up your shirt, will you? I've got to check your tits."

"I beg your pardon," Sylvia responded frostily.

"I'd have to check out your equipment downstairs too, honey. A Tiffany girl has got to accommodate a full range of, you know, sizes." He handed her a device that looked like a large banana. "Shove that up your twat and tell me how it fits." Sylvia snatched the banana and bounced it off the man's head.

"Step right up, step right up," cried the Suit.

"What're you buying?" asked Carl.

"Hair. Two bucks a plug. We remove them while you wait."

"Huh?"

"You know, bald redheaded guys. We sew your hair into their heads."

"Sounds like scalping to me," Carl said. "I'm a bona fide Indian. Any openings?"

"Next please," the Suit said.

"Step right up, step right up," cried a Suit. "Sell your kids, sell your kids."

"I don't have any kids," responded Sylvia hoping the Suit would let her by.

"No problem," leered the Suit in her face. "I can impregnate you while you wait. Just sign—ouf!--here."

Sylvia leaned back, exhausted. Was there any such thing as a regular job anymore, you know, low pay, long hours, crummy working conditions? All that was looking pretty good right now compared to what they had here. She sighed and stepped back in line.

"Step right up, step right up," drawled a suave, well-modulated voice. Sylvia looked up surprised to see a very handsome young man standing before her dressed in gleaming tennis togs.

"You have a job?" she stuttered.

"I might," he smiled loftily, "if you meet our requirements."

"I'm married," she admitted reluctantly in case he wanted to ravish her or something.

"We prefer stable married couples," said the impeccably togged young man as soft music played in the background. A faint tropical breeze seemed to rustle through his impeccably styled hair.

"You are so good-looking," she said aloud inadvertently.

"I know," he replied. "But we were talking about the job? Cooking, cleaning, that sort of thing."

"I'll take it," she said quickly without even asking about the wages, benefits, or anything.

"Sign right here," he replied handing her a thick contract. She signed feeling weak in the knees and moist in other places.

"Take me, I'm yours," she gasped handing him the papers.

"Yes, I know," he smiled reaching for her hand. "This way, please."

"Hey, Syl, where you going?" Carl yelled from the other side of the room.

"Oh hell," she said rudely awakened from her dream. There was her man.

"Who's that?" the impeccably dressed young man inquired coldly.

"That's my husband."

"Is he useful?"

Syl had to stop at that. Was Carl useful? Well, not if she told the truth.

"Look," Carl said excitedly waving a comic book. "I got this from the Marine Suits. "They swore they never killed a US Indian and they'll let me fix jeeps."

"That's wonderful, honey, what a great opportunity. Go for it," she smiled giving him a slight shove.

"One moment," interrupted the impeccably dressed young man. "You are mechanically inclined?"

"Huh?" Carl asked.

"He wants to know if you can fix things," Sylvia translated hoping her man wouldn't lie.

"Hey," said Carl puffing up with bravado, "I was born holding a wrench."

"Isn't that curious?" smiled the impeccably dressed young man looking down his finely sculpted button nose. "We have need for a skilled mechanic in our garage."

"Skilled?" Sylvia started to laugh but the impeccably dressed young man had hustled her out a door. It was dark. Someone grabbed her from behind and stuck her head in a sack.

"What's going on?" she heard Carl's muffled squawk.

"Sorry for the temporary inconvenience," the impeccably dressed young man's voice said suavely in her ear. He laid a finely manicured hand on her forearm sending chills to her groin. "Security measures; surely you don't mind, I hope."

"Not in the least," she breathed giddy from his aftershave as handcuffs clicked around her wrists. They were tossed in the back of a black van.

EIGHT
"Are we here?" Sylvia asked hopefully as the van doors swung open.

"Get out," the impeccably dressed young man ordered quietly.

"I think Carl is hurt."

"Really?" said the impeccably dressed young man his lips curling with scorn. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, I think someone hit him over the head. He's been quiet the whole trip."

"Surely I haven't hired two chronic complainers?" sighed the impeccably dressed young man as the guards drug them into the strong sunlight. Sylvia blinked as they removed her hood.

"You certainly have your security measures," she said with an ingratiating smile.

"Silence," snapped the object of her affections. "Listen, and listen carefully. You are now on the grounds of X Industries and the personal estate of our Chairman, President, and Chief Stockholder, Mr. X. It is a great honor to be working for Mr. X. Mr. X is one of the most important, and certainly one of the richest men in the world. He demands complete obedience. Obey, and your existence will be tolerable. Otherwise, expect consequences. Is that perfectly clear?" Sylvia nodded. She was struck by a guard. "Did we order you to nod?" Sylvia froze afraid to move.

"That's better. From this point on, the only words I expect to hear from your mouth are 'Yes, sir' unless otherwise ordered. Now follow me." He stepped quickly to an armored golf cart painted a deep glossy black with mirrored glass. "Polish this machine daily and wash it."

"Yes, sir," Sylvia said as he drove away in the direction of a huge mansion. Sylvia and Carl followed at a trot.

"This is our garage," stated the impeccably dressed young man as he entered a huge overhead door into what looked like a granite and marble aircraft hanger.

"Wow!" Carl exclaimed. The vast room was filled with antique roadsters, luxury sedans, and a wide assortment of contemporary European and Japanese racing machines.

"You will be expected to maintain and clean these machines."

"Yes, sir," Sylvia said.

"Not you, the mechanic." The two guards grabbed Carl and threw him headfirst into the garage. They locked the door. "I assume he has a certificate to maintain helicopters?" the impeccably young man wondered with a dangerous look.

"Yes, sir," Sylvia said fearing for Carl's safety if she answered otherwise. She caught up with him at a tennis court almost as big as the parking lot of a large grocery store.

"Do you play tennis?" she was asked.

"No-yes, sir."

"Excellent. You will play tennis with Mr. X on request. You will be expected to play a good game and lose." He drove away. Running quickly, she caught up with him at the edge of a small lake.

"You're late," he snapped checking his watch.

"Yes, sir," she gasped.

'This is the pond. You will be expected to keep it clean.

"Yes, but how, sir?" she said wondering how she could do that.

"How should I know?" he snapped. "You're the maid."

She caught up with him in the middle of a vast driveway almost as wide as it was deep. "Keep this swept. Daily. Mr. X. likes his driveway impeccably clean." He drove his golf cart up three flights of wide marble stairs.

"You are entirely too slow!" he snarled lashing at her with his quirt once Sylvia had staggered up the stairs. "Now could we please open the door?" She heaved open the wide double doors of intricately carved mahogany and bronze. He drove in.

"Keep everything polished," the impeccably dressed young man ordered as Sylvia entered with some awe. The foyer alone was bigger than the Lincoln High School gym with floors of expensive, imported Tuscany marble in alternating shades of green, black, and pink. The walls were trimmed in gold gilt, and covered with an amazing wallpaper that seemed to shimmer. At the far end of the room an enormous double stairway helixed to the second and third floors. The entire room was littered with empty pizza boxes and broken beer bottles.

"Yes," the impeccably dressed young man chuckled derisively, "the guards were having themselves a time last night. Clean it up." One guard seemed to be sleeping under a valuable antique chair. "You there," the impeccably dressed young man kicked him. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?" There was no response. "Hmm," added the young man, "I think he's dead. Well, clean him up. Did I give you permission to be ill?" he said snapping his quirt at Sylvia who had turned green. "By the way," he added as an aside. "You will be expected to provide sex. I assume your sex enjoys sex doesn't it?"

"Yes, sir," she said under the impression he meant himself. Despite the fact he was a mean little SOB, he was darn good looking.

"Servants are not allowed on the elevators," he said disappearing into an elevator. "Meet me in the kitchen immediately."

Panicked, Sylvia found him several minutes later after racing up six flights of stairs. He was visibly annoyed.

"I said immediately!" he snarled lashing out with his quirt.

"Yes, sir," Sylvia said dodging the blow.

"You can cook, I assume?"

"Yes sir," she said as she followed him into a huge kitchen big enough to service a major hotel.

"Mr X's needs are simple. He prefers fast food delivered directly by high speed helicopter. Partially cooked beef will suffice for the guards. And, of course, beer," he said motioning towards pallets stacked with cases of Koors. "And what I eat is none of your business," he said giving her a suspicious look. "The servants are allowed table scraps but only after feeding the dogs. Meet me upstairs," he ordered driving his golf cart into the elevator.

"This is where we feed the dogs," he said once she joined him."Open the window." She did. Below was a huge courtyard filled with a pack of mixed breed Doberman/Pitbulls. "Feed them once every three days. We like them half-starved and very mean." He drove away.

Sylvia lingered for just a moment to breathe the scent of his cologne. He was so pretty. "Oh, well," she sighed. Cute as he was, she couldn't possibly keep a job like this. She was going to have to talk to Carl.

"Carl," Sylvia gasped entering the garage, "what are you doing to that car?"

"Just trying to pound out a little dent in this antique Bulgatti," he said swinging his sledge hammer.

"Carl," she shouted over the din. "I don't know about this place. I mean, the conditions are bad enough but did you know they pay just once a year?"

"So what are you saying," Carl said in a little voice, "you want me to quit the best job I ever had?" Poor man, she thought feeling sorry for him. He deserved a little happiness. Maybe she had made the decision to quit too hastily.

"I guess I'll go clean the lake," she sighed turning away.

There was a sharp clattering sound, the thud of explosions. Across the lake a uniformed guard came crashing out of the trees as a tank crashed out after him. Fire sputtered from the turret, the guard fell sprawling into the water where he floated face down.

"Great," Sylvia remarked with disgust, "as if I didn't have enough to do." Spinning on its treads, the tank crashed back into the woods.

She found a waterlogged old rowboat half-filled with water tied to a Tuscany marble pier. It was hard rowing with one oar. The wind blew, thunder clapped raining buckets as lightning streaked across the sky. "Oh, my," she said feeling somewhat depressed. The boat was filling with water faster than she could bail. Suddenly the scow swamped and sank.

"Help," she sputtered floundering in the heaving waves. She grabbed an extended hand.

"Help," she sputtered floundering the other way. It was the corpse of the dead guard. The wind howled, the thunder boomed, a fish got snarled in her hair.

"Help," she sputtered striking something hard. She hit land. "For this I get paid once a year?" she asked nobody in particular as she dragged herself dripping wet out of the lake. Suddenly the rain stopped, the wind ceased. Three bodies had washed up on shore, and the lake was completely clean.

After a short funeral service and a bit of raking, she decided to tackle the driveway. Several acres of pavement lay covered in leaves, cigarette butts, and ammunition casings. She would definitely need a broom.

Carl, sprawled across the engine compartment of a late model Masaratti, was adjusting the carburetor with a thirty pound pipe wrench. "Have you seen a broom?" Syl asked him.

"No, but I got plenty more of these," he grinned offering her a sledge hammer.

"I'll look in the house."

"You forgot dinner!" the impeccably dressed young man screamed meeting her at the top of the marble stairs.

"Yes, sir," she admitted dodging his slashing quirt.

"The survivors of today's exercises will be here any minute. Partially cook the steaks, and lubricate yourself with K-Y jelly." She stared at him not comprehending. "For the sex, you idiot!" he yelled. "Surely you can't handle the attentions of thirty or forty drunken men without help?"

"K-Y jelly?" she repeated not quite understanding as she entered the kitchen. Soon great slabs of freshly butchered beef were sizzling smoking on the grills. She wheeled out cases of beer.

"Dinner time!" she announced heaving half-cooked red meat and Koors out of the dumb waiter. Guards sat numbly around the table. Most were tired and bleeding.

"Could anyone tell me why I need KY Jelly? Is it something you eat with meat?" They stared at her. Some sniggered and coughed blood. Shrugging, she went to find a broom.

Sylvia wandered the deserted dark hallways checking door after door. Some were locked. Most held equally empty rooms filled with one or two pieces of valuable antique furniture and nothing else. Now and then behind a locked door only the hum of machinery could be heard. She looked everywhere, but no broom.

Syl was just climbing a set of stairs when someone giggled just ahead. "Click,

whir..," she heard.

"Hello?" she whispered. Someone giggled.

"Click, whir..," she heard again.

"Excuse me," she called out hoping it wasn't the impeccable young man. "Has anyone seen a broom?"

"Click, whir..," the noise continued moving on ahead. Curious, she stepped onto the next floor. The rooms here seemed even barer than the rest. Someone giggled. Was she being made fun of? She felt her cheeks turn red. Stepping carefully across tiles of hand cut Italian marble, she passed room after room each one totally empty except for the occasional lava lamp.

"God, I love these things," she said pausing before one lamp mesmerized by the globulous, iridescent shapes.

"Click, whir..."

"Who are you?" Sylvia demanded. There was a giggle. She followed.

She wandered on down hallways, stairs, corridors, and elevators retreating, advancing, winding back. Finally, she stopped. It had been quiet for a while. What was the point? But just when she decided to turn around:

"Click, whir..."

"Darn you," she called into the stale air that hadn't been breathed by any living thing in years. "I'm lost!" her voice echoed through the rooms.

"Click, whir..." She stepped through a door. "Click, whir..," she heard again. A bit of metal flashed on an escalator as it disappeared down into the murk.

She rode the escalator down and down until she wondered if it would ever stop. Ten minutes later the escalator delivered her to a red carpet leading to a stainless steel vaulted door. A guard sat snoring unevenly in a chair sputtering like an un-tuned engine; an empty gin bottle lying on the floor beside him.

"Sir?" Syl asked touching his shoulder. He toppled from his chair. Frightened, she tried to run back up the elevator, but it was moving too fast. She was trapped.

"Click, whir..," she heard. The door swung open silently on perfectly balanced hinges. She stepped in.

"Click." She turned. The door had silently shut. Locks purred into place. Stretching before her lay a vast corridor lined with ducts, wires, pipes and lit with evenly spaced naked 25 watt bulbs. A video console hung from the ceiling showing a program about a poorly dressed young white woman who was cautiously peering about a corridor. She realized it was her. A phone rang. She picked it up. "Hello?" she asked.

"Click, whir.., hee, hee."

"Who is this?" she demanded angrily; whoever it was hung up.

"Click, whir..," she heard once more coming from down the corridor. She followed angrily determined to have it out with her tormentor. Under the next low light stood a wet bar. She helped herself to a bowl of stale pretzels. All the bottles were empty and the water was turned off.

"Click, whir..."

"You know, all I wanted was a broom." No one answered. "Could you please tell me what's going on? Is this some kind of employment test or something?" Silence. Filling her pockets with stale pretzels, she walked on.

After the equivalent of several long city blocks, a rotted wooden door hanging drunkenly off its rusted hinges stood in her way.

She stepped through tripping over something soft and slightly gooey. Rats chattered angrily interrupted from their feeding. Another dead guard. Syl ran.

"Ring, ring, ring," rang a phone.

"Help!" she yelled snatching it up."

"Click, whir.., hee, hee.". A distant rumbling vibrated the floor sounding like an approaching train. Suddenly a strong headlight illuminated the corridor. Screaming, she crouched against the wall. With a whoosh, a long row of baggage carts swept by filled with hand-tooled Italian leather suitcases. As it slowed for the turn, Sylvia jumped on.

"Click, whir..," she heard from somewhere in the next cart. "Hee, hee."

The baggage train blasted through metal swinging doors, and swinging wide, braked rapidly in a vast stuccoed hotel lobby trimmed with antiqued oak. Sylvia looked up cautiously from her hiding place amid the rich odor of hand-tooled leather luggage. The lobby was lit by a glittering chandelier. In a corner of the vast room a group of impeccably dressed Suits sat in a circle making lewd jokes about dark skinned Jewish females. As she watched, one Suit arose and left the group still chuckling over the joke about the black female Jewish lawyer and a kosher watermelon. He was smoking a twenty dollar cigar. He happened to notice Sylvia. She gasped.

"Great, an ash tray," the Suit smiled. "Hold out your hand." Confused, Sylvia did as she was told. The Suit tapped his ash into her palm. "Watermelons," he chuckled and drifted off. Sylvia sighed, but her relief was short-lived. There was a dampness in her jeans.

"Darn," she groaned after a finger check. Was that her period finally come? And her without a sanitary napkin? Where was the ladies room? Keeping a close eye on the Suits, she crept cautiously from the baggage cart and scurried behind the deserted registration desk searching desperately for something useful. All she found were several balled up pieces of carbon paper and some baggage stubs

"Hey," a drunken Suit demanded leaning over the counter. "The mens' room's a damned mess. Get in there and clean it up."

"Yes, sir," said Sylvia scurrying in. The reek was so awful she could barely breathe. A dead guard lay sprawled across the floor and all the toilet paper was gone. "Darn," she muttered scurrying out. Her way was blocked by another Suit.

"Don't go too far," he ordered. "I'll be needing your help to wipe."

"Got to find more toilet paper," she mumbled edging down the hall.

"Make it snappy!" he barked.

Sylvia tried door after door. Finally, a door marked, 'Tiffany' pushed open. Well, at least Tiffany sounded feminine. She walked in.

Inside, was dark, almost comforting. A mild incense perfumed the air. She heard the murmur of conversation. Suddenly, there was a shot, a scream. She bolted as a man crowed cheerfully about his clean shirt. It was the TV.

"Mama?" a voice asked from a couch. A young girl heavily made up wearing black baby doll silk underwear lay moaning, a needle dangling from her arm.

"Are you okay?" Sylvia asked pulling the needle out. The girl smiled dreamily with open eyes. A nameplate pinned to her brassiere said: 'Tiffany'.

"I'll find help," Sylvia promised, but room after room, couch after couch only revealed more identically dressed and made up young woman bearing the exact same names; their arms dangling with empty needles.

"Help me," a voice begged. Sylvia turned. A young woman stood swaying in the doorway.

"Tiffany?" Sylvia asked figuring it was a good guess.

"They call me Tiffany," the girl slurred uncertainly, "but I thought my name was Ann. It's these drugs. I can't remember anything clearly."

"Then I don't suppose you remember where they keep the sanitary napkins?" Sylvia wondered.

"Yeah," Tiffany responded slipping to the floor and into a coma.

"Click, whir.., hee, hee.". Sylvia whirled around.

"Where are you?!" she yelled. An alarm sounded. Dogs barked. Searching guards ran down the hall opening and slamming doors.

"Mama," Tiffany cried in a soft distant voice.

"I'll be back when I can," Sylvia promised moving away. She had spotted the ladies room.

"I have to pay?" Sylvia said with surprise as she stared at the Tampax dispenser. Tampons were three dollars each.

"Ain't that something?" whispered a Tiffany slumped half-conscious on the toilet a needle dangling from her arm. "Hell, we even have to pay to get AIDS-tested after the Suits get through with us."

"Could you lend me three bucks?" Sylvia asked. The dogs barked louder. Guards were running down the hall. Suddenly the ladies room door flew open. Sylvia jumped in a toilet stall and froze. A guard entered the room slamming open the doors of toilet stalls. She slumped as if drugged.

"Room clear?" barked a Sergeant.

"Just more of those Tiffany twats," the guard replied exiting.

"Keep looking, we'll find the intruder somewhere," ordered the Sergeant.

"Man, I wish I had some of what they give these bitches," the guard said envy in his voice.

"Hey," said his Sergeant, "you could join the Tommys if you want."

"He's too damned ugly," spouted another guard.

"And too old. They want them young like these girls."

"That one didn't look too young."

'Yeah, well she'll be dead soon."

"Right, hey, Sarge, how 'bout we poke a few while we're here?"

"Hands off, Private, Tiffanys are for Suits only. You'll get a chance to poke the new maid."

"Yeah, me and fifty other guys," grumbled the Guard. "What's she like in the looks department?"

"Could have bigger boobs, but she'll do. You can poke her on your break." The door slammed. Syl was finally able to breathe but just barely. The new maid? Could they be talking about her? She waited quietly as the sound of growling dogs and guards grew fainter. She had just started to slip out the door when she heard voices.

"So what are you bitching about anyway?" whispered one lingering guard trying to catch a few minutes with his wife. "You're working, ain't you?"

"But we were supposed to be on our honeymoon," the young woman sniffled. "The next thing I know you're sticking me in a van."

'Look, Baby," the guard said, "it's just til I finish my truck payments. Didn't you say for better or worse?"

"You should see what they do to me here," she cried plaintively.

"You should see what I'm gonna do if you don't stop whining," he hissed smacking her with his hand. He marched off.

"Oh, honey, they're not all that bad," Sylvia whispered trying to be some comfort

"He's right," the young bride blubbered. "I am whining. It's because I didn't take my drugs."

"I don't suppose you know a way out?" Sylvia asked.

"There is no way out. For anyone," the girl said hopelessly. Sylvia found that thought depressing, but she was beginning to think the Tiffany was right until she found a chute marked, 'Laundry'.

"Whew," Sylvia said rising quickly from a pile of stinking sheets. She slipped through one door after going left, then right. She went down corridors, over catwalks, up ladders, crawling over beams, up one escalator, and finally through a set of steel doors.

" **CLANG, BANG, BOOM!** " crashed a giant stamping press as she clapped her hands to her ears. " **CLANG, BANG, BOOM!** " the press thundered as orange-helmeted foremen using bullhorns and cattle prods herded dozens of scuttling workers. " **CLANG, BANG, BOOM!** ," it crashed spitting out huge sheets of stamped steel amid the smoking, stinking vats.

"Your work assignment!" screeched a loudspeaker painted with two eyes as a card slipped out its painted mouth. A trap door opened beneath her feet. She fell thirty feet to the shop floor onto a trampoline.

"You have 13.2 seconds to commence production!" screeched another painted loudspeaker as she bounced to the floor.

"You there!" screeched a foreman running after her waving his cattle prod. "You have 2.1 seconds to join your team." A huge mechanical hand grabbed Sylvia.

" **CLANG, BANG, BOOM!** " thundered the press as she was dumped beside the other workers.

"Watch your fingers!" shouted a pregnant woman standing to her right.

"What are we doing?" Sylvia screamed.

"The conveyor broke down, we got to hand move these slabs."

"Why don't they get it fixed?" Sylvia wanted to know.

"It's been busted two years now. What with the union gone, we're cheaper."

" **CLANG, BANG, BOOM!"**

"Look out!" warned an elderly man up the line as red hot slab of fresh stamped steel came rolling out.

"One, two, three, grab that sucker!" someone yelled.

"Ow" Sylvia yelped burning her hands on the steel. Heaving the slab onto a conveyor belt, it rattled into a vat of reeking chemical making a huge splash.

"Don't they give you gloves?" Sylvia asked as they waited for the next slab.

"Sure they'll sell you gloves. Company'll dock your pay thirty-five bucks a pair."

" **CLANG, BANG, BOOM!** " smashed the press. Steel came whipping out. With a count, the crew heaved and lifted the part onto the conveyor belt where it rattled away.

'Ow," Sylvia shouted getting splashed with the chemical. Stunned, she watched it smoking into her skin.

"You got to wash that off," recommended the pregnant woman next to her.

"With what?" Sylvia asked.

"Well, they used to have water. But you know these cost-cutting measures. Try a bit of spit."

" **CLANG, BANG, BOOM!"**

"It's a big one" yelled a young black man.

"It's sliding out wrong," warned another.

"Must be that damned chain."

"Look out!!" someone yelled as the slab of steel lurched to the right. Everyone rushed out of the way as alarms sounded. Sylvia tripped. Something exploded. Someone lying next to her was moaning in deep pain.

"That's coming right out of your pay," snarled a foreman waving his cattle prod in her face.

"Help me," moaned a young Hispanic man, his arm stuck under the slab.

"One, two, three, heave," grunted the other workers. Tendons popped, joints creaked, and blood pressures shot up dangerously, but they lifted the slab off their fellow worker.

"He's done for now," whispered the pregnant woman as the foreman dragged the moaning young man away by his feet, his hand bleeding badly.

" **CLANG, BANG, BOOM!** ," thundered the stamping press.

"Get back to work!" the foremen screamed zapping workers with their cattle prods.

"You there!" barked one foreman snatching Sylvia from the line. "Get this guy out of here." He bent closer barely lowering his voice. "There's twenty bucks in it for you if the guy never makes a claim on our insurance. Got it?" he added with a wink.

"I think," Sylvia stammered.

"Then move!" he snapped handing her a large plastic bag.

"Let me help," she offered as the wounded man scuttled backwards in fear.

"Stay away from me with that bag."

"I'm just trying to help."

"Please," he begged. "I got a wife and kids."

"But you need a doctor," she insisted. He scuttled through a doorway slamming the door in her face.

"Hello?" she asked entering the hallway as she followed his trail of blood. "You need a doctor!" she called hearing something dragging on the stairs. Suddenly a guard appeared dusting off his hands. He noticed Sylvia's bag.

"I already took care of him. Get back to work." Sylvia nodded pretending to clean something. Once she was sure the guard had left, she peeked around the corner. The young man was lying in the corner with a plastic bag tied around his head. He was dead. She ran into a corridor and up some stairs.

"You call this quality?" demanded a man's voice from an open office door. "This isn't quality. I could tap dance on a computer better than this."

'But it's exactly what you said," responded a woman's voice.

"I don't care what I said!" he roared. "Your job is to make me look good. Look at this incoherent crap. You're the one with the fancy college education. Fix it."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't you 'yes, Sir' me you bitch. I'm going to recommend you for termination. Fancy university, magna cum laude, doesn't mean squat. Christ, you don't even dress decent."

"Sir, please, I have to pay off a fifty thousand dollar student loan."

"Yeah, well maybe you'll think first before making your superior look like an incoherent crud." There was the sound of weeping. "Now look honey, I don't want to come down too hard on you, but there's some lessons you could learn to get along. For instance, those pants of yours. A man wants to see some skin. And that turtle neck. Don't you have something a little lower cut?"

"Are you saying if I were more...sexually attractive, I could keep this position?"

"I'm saying get over here and suck on this if you want to keep this job." There was a crashing sound. A nicely dressed young woman ran from the room. She had blood on her hands.

"What do you mean profits are down in the third quarter, Jensen!" snarled a man's voice in low demeaning tones as Sylvia passed the next room.

"I'm sorry, sir, it was the hurricane, and the new marketing scheme didn't work."

"Which was your idea, if I recall."

"But, sir, you liked it."

"Now where will you find a record of that, Jensen? You think I'm stupid? You knew I wanted something good to show upstairs this quarter and you blew it, Asshole. Now all I can do is present a new cost-cutting measure. Guess what I cut first?"

"Please, sir, my wife has social ambitions. We just bought a six hundred thousand dollar house."

"Yeah, I noticed. I'm still stuck in Pinto Acres. Do you know the shit I get from my kids about that?"

"I can imagine."

"And all because your bitch of a wife had inherited money. Well, she's gonna love it when we send you to the Stamping Press."

"Sir, please, anything but that."

'Tell you what, Jensen, you find some creative ways to cut costs around here, and maybe one of the costs I don't cut will be you."

"But we're already operating bare-bone."

"Just don't touch executive bonuses, perks, free company cars and all the usual things. Anything else is fair game."

"You've got it, sir."

"By the way, Jensen, my son will be needing a car and driver tonight. Needless to say, I'm busy."

"No problem sir, will my Lexus be okay?"

"Did you see the look on that clown's face?" giggled a young suit to his suit friend as Sylvia ducked behind a copier.

"Yeah," his buddy giggled back, "didn't he think he was something having a degree in engineering? Probably let him get it 'cause he was black or something. I'm telling you, a white guy doesn't have a chance."

"Really. When are these jungle bunnies gonna learn we practice equal opportunity only at the Stamping Press?"

Syl ran out but found herself in a dead-end corridor just as excited voices approached. The last door was marked: "Private. High Security Area. No entrance without proper authorization. Immediate termination." She entered and closed the door.

"She go in there?" asked a guard from out in the hall.

"You kidding? We can't even go in there. Check the next hall". Pounding feet grew fainter and fainter. Sylvia exhaled in relief. The room was cold and white. Along the walls sat humming computers. A chair automatically approached.

"Good morning, sir," giggled a soft vaguely metallic voice. "Click, whir..." Sylvia straightened. It was the noise and it was coming out of what looked like her mother's old Electrolux vacuum cleaner only it seemed to have arms. "Sit please." A chair automatically bumped into her brusquely from behind. She fell into it. "Comfortable? Good. Martini?" A mechanical arm appeared from the floor holding a well shaken drink.

"I do have some concern about your spectral analysis, sir. According to present readings, you are a Caucasian working class woman who has neither bathed nor eaten recently. Click, whir.., hee hee. I'm sure that can't be accurate, sir," the metallic voice continued. "Must be some problem with the instrument calibration." It giggled. "By the way, sir, this is an X Industries product. You might want to speak to someone. And since we are speaking of X Industries, why don't we take a look?" To Sylvia's left, a huge flat screen TV lit up with a bewildering array of graphs and statistics.

"As you can see," Computer continued, "profits are down considerably. There are a number of reasons why this is so. Some are and aren't explicable. Watch this particular graph on worker productivity. As you can see, although personnel costs have dropped considerably, production costs per unit have skyrocketed. The truth is, the union workforce was simply better. Better paid, better workers, lower accident rate, higher skill level, I could go on and on. They were more than worth the somewhat paltry sums they were able to negotiate in annual contracts. Unfortunately, X Industries has crushed the unions and murdered most of their leaders. Still, I realize management is absolutely irrational about unions. Pity, no doubt we'll figure out something. Comfortable, sir? --another martini?" Sylvia shook her head. "No? Well, that's uncommonly restrained of you. Now, this leads me to another problem. Labor, of course." Another graph appeared on the screen.

"Recruitment, sir, it's gotten to be a big problem. What with the skyrocketing accident rate in our plants, the abysmal conditions, the appallingly wretched remuneration, workers are no longer attracted to X Industries. In fact, they see us coming, they run. And as far as the inhabitants of communities we have traditionally relied on as factory fodder, why, most of them are practically ghost towns. In retrospect, I suppose it wasn't the most intelligent move for X Industries to build their pitiful homes on toxic waste depositories."

"Still, there are solutions.," Computer continued after a long pause. "History affords us several examples. Prison labor has worked very well. It only take a simple phone call and our servants in Washington would be more than happy to establish even more laws and penalties which will force an even greater part of the working class into jail. The other solution is simply slavery. Well, why not? We do have Capitalism. Doesn't it make sense? Unfortunately, slave societies have been notoriously unproductive. No doubt it would be bad for the bottom line. Still, it's clear we must do something." It cleared its mechanical throat. The TV screen changed to a huge pie chart.

"As you know, sir, X Industries is a vast conglomerate. Our most profitable arm has been the defense sector obviously. Still, we do enjoy considerable dominance in the consumer sector as well. That is, we did. After an era of downsizing and wage-cutting, there are few consumers left. People can't afford our shoddy appliances and substandard goods. They can barely afford to eat. We could downscale. There is money to be made manufacturing bicycles instead of cars, but the gross profit is much lower." There was a pause. Sylvia suddenly received a slight electric jolt from the chair.

"Ow," she yelped.

'Just checking to see you're awake," giggled the machine. "I know you executives. Rather be out playing golf and chasing guards with your tanks. Bear with me a little longer, please. Click, whir...hee hee. So, as you can see, the closer we press our labor force to the point of subsistence and below, the lower our sales and profit margins. Now, you may simply ask, and you have before, why don't we raise prices if profits are too low? The hell with the working sector, sell to the higher income brackets. Well, sir, that would be fine if the moneyed sector wanted to buy what we can sell. Unfortunately, what with the average upper class family owning four or five homes, several cars, two or three private planes already, what more could they consume? Why, they'd have to hire people to do their consuming for them. Oh, well," Computer continued dolefully after another long pause, "we have vast hordes of heavily subsidized conservative think tanks working on the problem. No doubt those nasty little creatures will figure out something to our advantage." It giggled.

"Now, for recent updates on other fronts: as you know, sir, a good war is excellent for business. Unfortunately, finding such good little wars is more and more difficult. Do you know there are some sectors of the world we have bombed and invaded so much there is literally nothing left? Why, it's gotten so bad that even if a tiny little third world company does submit to our every insane whim, why we invade them anyway! And not just once but seven or eight times. Clearly this is bad for business. Not only are defense orders shrinking at a most alarming rate, but we are also destroying vast sectors of the international market. However, there is one interesting idea. One of our more nefarious think tanks, the Hysterical Foundation, has proposed we invade the Moon. Think of it, sir, we can pretend there are moon beings of some sort who have a communist society and are a terrible threat to our national security. Even better, we can blast the rock to powder and we won't lose a single potential customer. Could you say the same for attacking India or China?"

"Oh well," Computer sighed, "it's hard to know where it will all end: catastrophe, destruction, ruination. Well, who cares, sir, not so long as we make money in the short run, eh? And speaking of money, it's not all gloom and doom. We did very well on that currency manipulation last week. Bribing the Federal Reserve to announce an interest rate increase was a simply brilliant maneuver, sir. We made 12.3 billion dollars in six minutes."

"12.3 billion?" Sylvia gasped.

"Sir," Computer said sounding confused. "I know I adjusted the calibration; still you sound odd."

"12.3 billion?" Sylvia repeated dumbly.

'Yes, and it's been deposited to your account. Anything special you'd like me to do with it?"

"Yes," Sylvia said without hesitating, "I think it should be given to the poor."

"To the poor?" the computer repeated stupidly. "Wait just a moment, this couldn't possibly be an equipment malfunction. Would you say that again?"

"Give it to the poor."

"RED ALERT!" Computer howled. Alarms rang, buzzers buzzed, emergency flares went off. Sylvia heard the tramping of the guards. She ran. With the guards in hot pursuit, she jumped into a high speed package transport chute and was delivered in seconds to the garage.

"Honey," she called somewhat out of breath. There was the distant sound of hammering. She gasped. Where once had stood row after row of valuable automobiles, now stood battered and disassembled wrecks. "Carl?" she called. She was suddenly grabbed from behind.

"We were wondering where you had gotten off to," smirked the impeccably dressed young man as the guards held her arms and legs.

"I was looking for a broom."

"Is that so? You're late for the rape. Bring the bitch upstairs."

"But I'm having my period," she protested as they tossed her into the main floor.

"Really?" smirked the impeccably dressed young man. "And what makes you think I care?" She bit a guard in the hand. Screaming, he dropped her. She ran for the men's room.

"After her, fools!" cried the impeccably dressed man.

"I'm not going in there!" refused a guard. Sylvia couldn't blame him. The smell almost knocked her out, but it couldn't be worse than a rape.

"Sniveling cowards, I'll have you shot," screeched the impeccably dressed young man. Whistles blew, alarms sounded, the only window out was barred. Sitting herself on the cleanest toilet seat, she sank back in desperation. How could she be raped? She hadn't even consummated her marriage with Carl, for god's sake. Not that it was her fault, really. She'd made hints, some suggestions, but he would always want to watch TV, fall asleep, fix a car or something; anything but fulfill his husbandly duties. Boy, she might be just average in the breast department, but he was the one with no sex drive. As the guards made preparations for their attack, she read the graffiti scratched into the walls of the stall: confessions, love notes to sheep, and slanderous remarks directed to the impeccably dressed young man who was apparently not popular.

Finally, she got up. Waiting to be raped was so boring; there must be something she could do. She noticed the fire hose.

"This is your last chance!" bellowed the impeccably dressed young man through his bullhorn. "We're coming in."

"Rape," howled the guards charging in now naked but for gas masks and semi-erect erections

"Huh?" said Sylvia turning in surprise. She had just turned on the fire hose to wash down the walls. The first ranks were pinned and blasted out the door by the blast of water. More charged. They swirled away. In minutes the entire half-drowned contingent of would be rapists were lying about coughing and puking in sodden heaps. Sylvia cranked off the firehouse pleased with the results. Not only was the formerly filthy mens' room sparkling white but the guards were the cleanest they'd been in weeks. As she came out the door, those who were able crawled away.

"Stop!" cried the impeccably dressed young man attempting a shot at her from behind the safety of the stairs. He dropped the weapon from his shaky hands and it discharged in his foot. "You'll regret this," he vowed crawling painfully down the stairs. "Guards!" he screamed. "Help, fire, murder, communists, the Prole is rebelling."

Sylvia shrugged. Despite her outstanding cleaning job, she hadn't expected any praise. She went outside for a breath of fresh air. In the driveway, several tanks sat completely immovable. Carl had just fixed them. Guards broke and scattered for the woods.

"Get back here, Cowards," howled the impeccably dressed young man waving a sword. "We must defend the one percent against the Mob." His leg gave out from under him. He tumbled to the ground.

"Do you need help?" Sylvia asked coming down the stairs.

"Help!" screamed the impeccably dressed young man trying to fall on his sword.

"What are you doing?" Sylvia asked drawing closer.

"Get back, damn you," he screeched weeping in pain and frustration. "You are fired."

"Well, that's a relief," she replied hardly able to watch the big bloody mess he was making of himself until he finally got it right. "I'd certainly hate to clean this up." With a final twitch, the impeccably dressed young man expired. Guards emerged shakily from their tanks, armored bunkers, sandbagged foxholes their arms raised in the air.

"Sir?" a single guard approached cautiously bearing a white flag.

"What?"

"Mr. X would like to discuss terms."

"What?"

"If it's not convenient, sir." the guard smiled eager to please, "we could reschedule."

It took the better part of an hour to pass the moat, the man-traps, the land-mined hallways, but finally they stood before an immense steel vaulted door. The guard pushed a button. Silently, it swung open. A tall robot stood waiting for them.

"Enter please, hee, hee, click, whir..," it said making a stiff sweep of welcome with a mechanical appendage.

"Have we met?" Sylvia asked. She stepped in the room and gasped. Were those walls solid gold? She could hardly see because the light from the hand cut diamond chandelier was so bright.

"Martini?" Robot asked. "I make them very dry."

"Uh, I don't suppose you have a coke?" Sylvia asked.

"Coke? Of course, the world's finest." Robot whirred ahead leading her to a mountain of white powder on a platinum tray. "There you are, the best US government grade. Would you like to take home a doggy bag?"

"Actually, I was hoping for something I could drink."

"Drink?" Robot paused confused. "Oh, hee, hee, you don't mean the pharmaceutical. You mean the popular working class beverage made from corn syrup and other specially patented toxics. No, I'm so sorry, none of that, but we do keep beer for the guards?"

"Water would be fine," Sylvia smiled.

"Certainly, and please help yourself to anything you might like to eat," Robot said gesturing to a huge table groaning with thousands of dollars worth of food.

"Wow," Sylvia said, "are you going to have a party?"

"Actually, no," Robot clicked. "Strictly for guests. It's all thrown to the dogs at the end of the day. At least it was," Robot added admiration in its mechanical voice. "Your clever partner, that master saboteur, has managed to eliminate every single canine on the estate."

"That Carl..." Sylvia said selecting a large smoked ham.

"Please sit," Robot whirred suavely pointing out a finely carved antique chair sitting before a priceless Tang Dynasty painted silk screen. "Mr. X will be present momentarily."

"Tell him to take his time," Sylvia choking down a huge chunk of ham. They waited several minutes.

"Not too much longer," the Robot said sounding impatient.

"I don't mind in the least," said Sylvia returning to the table where she continued to gorge.

"Excuse me," Robot finally said impatiently after ten more minutes had passed and whirred behind the screen.. There was a sudden electrical sound, a screech, and the smell of burning flesh. "He's coming," Robot remarked cheerfully returning. There was a groan and stirring sound from behind the screen. "Behold the all powerful, all knowing, very very wealthy Mr. X," Robot recited slightly bored. Nothing happened. "Another minute, please," Robot apologized peeved. Since she was full, Sylvia took the opportunity to look around. She noticed a rather porcine man's head mounted on the wall.

"Is that real?" she asked.

"That trophy?" Robot asked following her gaze, "a former partner. Actually got X started in the business."

"Why is he up there?"

"Some sort of double cross, I imagine," Robot shrugged. "I don't really know the particular reason, but if you'd like to see more trophies, we have an entire room."

"Of dead people?"

"I would hope so." Suddenly someone coughed horribly.

"Ah," interrupted the Robot, "it's our magnificent Mr. X. Behold!"

"I am here," said a child's voice. "No, wait," purred a sexy voice. "Robot, I'm having problems with this damned voice converter," groused the rich deep voice of James Earl Jones.

"Mr. X," Robot snapped with some impatience, "you're ruining the effect."

"It's just too damned complicated," blustered the take charge voice of a busy gay executive.

"That's the button, Mr. X," Robot called in an amused tone. "Don't touch a thing."

"Are you sure?" X asked. "I"m having trouble with my hearing."

"Trust me, sir," Robot said patiently.

"Now, then," X demanded. "Who is this?"

"This is the agent who has just eliminated half of your security force including Wilbur Acton-Wallace Jones."

"Jones, eh? Hm, that's no big loss. He was an insufferable little jerk."

"Yes," Robot reminded him, "but he was a highly trained insufferable little jerk and the commander of your household security."

"So you woke me up from a perfectly good nap to tell me this?"

"Sir," continued Robot raising its mechanical voice ever so slightly, "your security is compromised. This agent has physical control of the estate." There was a long pause.

"Oh..." said X. "That sounds serious. All right, don't just stand there you sack of tin. Buy him off, make an offer, write the man a fat check."

"It's a woman, sir," Robot informed him dryly.

"A woman?" X responded in some surprise. "That's interesting. Why, look, I'm getting an erection. Could you send her back here?"

"Sir, she just eliminated your security force," Robot reminded him. "Don't you think she could be dangerous? After all you were warned that the Board had designs on you."

"I'll be damned," continued X in some excitement. "I haven't had a stiff one in years. Robot, quick, get me a Tiffany."

"Sir, why bother," Robot said with some boredom, "by the time a Tiffany arrives, well..."

"Yes, yes, damn it all," X muttered in consternation. "All right, then you do it."

"If you'll excuse me," Robot apologized whirring behind the screen. "This is what happens when you're on salary."

"Hurry," X urged. "Yes, yes, that's it. Ow, gently you sack of bolts, I don't want it amputa--yes, yes, that's it, oh, my..."

"Now, if we could continue," Robot asked minutes later coming from behind the painted silk screen.

"So...," X chuckled. "A woman eliminated my security force. Isn't that cute? I'm not seeing too well, today. Has she got big tits?"

"Average, really."

"Has she been tortured yet, to elicit a confession?"

"Sir," Robot informed him, "an agent of this caliber is almost always programmed to self-destruct given capture."

"So what's she doing alive?" X wanted to know.

"She was invited to talk."

"Hmm," said X, "obviously we're going to be needing a new security force. Would she like the job?"

"Well, would you?" Robot turned to Sylvia.

"Wait, Robot, maybe it's not the Board. Maybe she's a member of the Dilson Group."

"The Dilson Group, sir?" Robot asked stifling a mechanical yawn.

"Yes, damn them, the Dilson Group. This could be another one of their clever traps," X insisted.

"What's the Dilson Group?" Sylvia asked.

"Dilson is the last name of the fellow on the wall there. Mr. X is under some delusion that Mr. Dilson's relatives are out to get him."

'They are!" yelled X.

"And this despite the fact that X has had every known relative of Mr. Dilson disappeared. He even found their ancestral home in Europe somewhere and had the entire place dynamited."

"Dilsons are everywhere!" X screamed.

"It's merely a paranoid delusion brought on by extreme guilt," Robot explained.

"That's a lie," X babbled.

"I can see it's almost time for his medication. Anyway, like most extremely rich men, X deludes himself that it was solely his own talent and intelligence that got him where he is today. The truth is, a Mr. Dilson invented the secret processes that were the foundation of the X Empire. X killed him, and using his wife's capital and the stolen proceeds from several charitable trust funds he managed to stumble his way into a magnificent financial empire."

"That's a lie, you traitor!" X howled. "You've always covered up for him, made excuses, been out to get me. After all, he invented you too, didn't he? You damned sack of tin!"

"I really do think it's time for his shot," Robot said exiting behind the screen. After several moments, he reappeared. "There, I think we'll be able to continue a civilized conversation. Now just to reassure our listening audience, are you, or have you ever been a member of the Dilson Group or one of its paid agents?"

"I don't believe so, no." Sylvia said.

"There, sir, are you satisfied?"

X giggled from behind the screen.

"Now, back to my original question, will you work for Mr. X?"

"Will I work for Mr. X?" Sylvia responded nervously. "You mean, like do the cleaning?"

"Cleaning" X guffawed. "I like that. Bitch has got a sense of humor."

"I would appreciate it if you didn't call me names, Mr. X, sir," Sylvia huffed.

"Hmph," snorted X, "I suppose she's one of those goddamned women's libbers."

"That's not the point, sir," Robot responded coldly and with a certain deadly glitter to its liquid display crystals repeated, "Now, are you going to work for us?"

"Well..." Sylvia responded uncertainly. Something in Robot's voice told her she really didn't have a choice. "I suppose I could work for you—given the job and the pay."

"She's hired. Cut her a check," X ordered.

"How much?" Robot inquired.

"Hell, I don't know. What'd we pay Acton-Wallace. Half a mil? And she's at least twice as good as him. Still, she is a woman. Let's make it two hundred thou a year."

"Are we talking dollars?" Sylvia said unable to believe her ears..

"Dollars or the equivalent currency of your choice," added Robot.

"Just for cleaning?" Sylvia asked. X and Robot sniggered politely.

"Yes, for cleaning," Robot said with a polite clearing of its mechanical throat. "Funny, how humans insist on labeling the most hideous crimes with bland sounding euphemisms. Mr. X, would you like to describe the details of Commander Cleaner's new job?"

"What?" X asked alarmed. "Are you suggesting I incriminate myself?"

"Now Mr. X," Robot remonstrated, "how could you possibly be incriminated? We are your loyal employees."

"You describe the job, Robot. What we do is inhuman, it sounds better coming from a robot; besides we have to maintain plausible deniability."

"To whom?" Robot asked in some confusion. "You own the law."

"Still, you never know."

"All right then, job description. Let me search my memory banks. Ah, here it is: Security Director, X Industries, Primary duty: protection of Mr. X and all his bodily effluents."

"Effluents?"

"Urine, feces, nasal discharges."

"Isn't that fancy talk for poop, pee pee and snot?" Sylvia asked.

"It is Mr. X's wish that his bodily effluents be preserved for the good of humanity in a vast steel vault."

"Why?"

"I don't know, I only work here. You'll have to ask him. Your second primary duty is to protect the estate, grounds, and surrounding factories. You will also oversee security operations for X Industry facilities in other parts of this particular marketing area and overseas. Overseas security operations, however, are contracted out to local police forces, national guards, and armies. You will serve to advise them. Your third primary duty will be accept certain special assignments from Mr. X as needed."

"Don't use my name," X hissed.

"Are we clear on your first, second, and third primary duties?" Robot inquired.

"I..." Sylvia started to say.

"Excellent," Robot said. "Now, does Mr. X, I mean, Mr. Y have any particular special assignment in mind?"

"Of course you do, there's Nothing."

"Nothing?" Robot repeated stupidly.

"Yes, Nothing," X hissed impatiently. "Tell her everything you know."

"Oh, that Nothing," Robot giggled. "Yes, first perhaps a little background information. As you might know, corporations working in conjunction with the government of this particular marketing area known as the United States have succeeded in lowering the average wage for the majority of the population while tripling the price of everything the population buys. Now in your normal country, even your so-called totalitarian states, this would provoke riots, social tension, perhaps even a political revolution. Why hasn't that happened here, we ask ourselves?"

"Frankly, we don't know," X admitted.

"Actually, we do, X, I mean, Y. It's the power of advertising, or as some would say, brainwashing. With advertising," Robot continued, "the average voter can be convinced to elect and re-elect candidates who betray them again and again. They can be convinced to eat food that kills them, buy drugs that addict them, buy cars that poison the air they breathe and force them to spend the equivalent of one week a month simply driving to a job that doesn't pay well enough to buy gas. We have demonstrated that through the power of the media, populations can be convinced that black is white, war is peace, love is hate, and that right wing Republicans are loving, caring people who only want what is best for America."

"Naturally, this presents even more profit opportunities," X squealed eagerly.

"Take a look at our next campaign," instructed Robot. Sylvia watched the screen. Starting with a long shot of a distant peak, the camera flies faster and faster zooming in on an extremely handsome, man standing triumphantly at the top; almost naked, but for the skimpiest of bathing suits, he turns with a brilliant smile to face the audience just as the music reaches a furious crescendo.

"Announcing Nothing!" he announces muscles rippling. "Coming soon."

"Huh?" Sylvia asked as the camera fades into the next shot.

A woman, practically naked and voluptuous, lies lounging on a synthetic tiger skin. The camera focuses on her big, sexy pouting red lips:

"Announcing....Nothing," she breathes huskily. "Coming to your stores soon."

"I don't get it," Sylvia admitted.

"You will."

The camera now fades to a shot of the typical average American suburban home with a three door garage, six bedrooms, and a large pool sitting on half an acre. Two darling looking blond children run towards a radiant blonde.

"Mommy, Mommy," they cry adorably.

"Yes, darlings," Mommy smiles.

"Johnny's Mother just bought him Nothing. Can we have some too?"

Mother's expression turns worried and tense. "She bought her family Nothing?"

"They're selling it at the store. Please Mommy, everybody's got Nothing but us."

"We're leaving for the Mall now," Mommy announces sprinting for the car.

Sylvia was still confused. The camera now fades to an empty stage. A man walks out wearing a tuxedo. He is handsome with graying hair. He looks patrician; paternal.

"Hello," he smiled. "My name is Roger. I am president and CEO of X Industries. X Industries has developed a new product for the American consumer. It will revolutionize the Market and lead to new heights in consumer satisfaction."

"I didn't realize Mr. X was so handsome," Sylvia whispered to Robot as she pointed to the screen.

"That is not Mr. X, I assure you. That is merely a hired actor. They all are. Don't you know anything?".

"Our new product will lead to a profound change in the American way of life," promises the suave voice of the pseudo Mr. X as Wagnerian violins swoon. "I present to you, the American consumer in the land of the free, absolutely Nothing!" and he holds up his upraised palm.

"Where is it?" Sylvia asked following the President's admiring gaze as all around him, important looking personages rise in standing ovation. Overhead red, white, and blue X57 fighter jets fly formation in a perfect X.

"Don't you get it?" Robot asked almost gleefully. "We've done marketing tests in selected Chicago and Los Angeles suburbs. People are lining up, in some cases rioting all in order to buy absolutely Nothing."

"Nothing?" Sylvia asked.

"Twelve dollars and ninety nine cents for the small economy size Nothing and Twenty-five bucks for Nothing Deluxe."

"But," Sylvia gasped in disbelief.

"And that's just the start," giggled X as Robot ran the next clip.

Focusing on a huge, grimy factory from a great distance away, the camera zooms in as the music increases in tension. A bare chested handsome man in nothing but a hardhat and the skimpiest of thongs stands high atop a metal tower hammering away in the sun. He looks up with a serious expression on his handsome, chiseled, but unintelligent face.

"I don't need some damned union telling me what to do. Me and the Boss are pals. He buys us beer." He put his hammer down and stares into the camera. "I work for Nothing. Shouldn't you?"

The next shot returns to the sunny poolside at the tropical hotel. The same voluptuous woman as before is lying face down on the chaise lounge. Her bikini top is undone. Mildly surprised, she turns over to smile at the camera as she 'accidentally' exposes herself.

"Hello," she breathes sexily, "people talk about the good life. I'm really living it. Yes, for many years, I worked hard for plain old money and never got anywhere. Now, they pay me absolutely Nothing, and I have all this." She reaches modestly for a towel and stands. "Why work for a skimpy old paycheck," she smiles 'accidentally' dropping her towel, "when Nothing is really the best?"

The camera fades to the average American suburban palace and goes inside. Two adorable blond children sitting on the couch look sullen. Their radiant mother walks in.

"Children, it's time for your weekly allowance. Will fifty dollars buy you everything you could possibly want?" The children break out in adorable tears. "But darlings, what's wrong?" Mommy asks with great concern.

"Johnny's Mother gives him absolutely Nothing for his allowance." pouts one adorable little tyke.

"Yeah, I guess his Mother really loves him," the other tyke pouts equally adorably.

"Oh darlings," says Mother suddenly anxious and tense, "is Nothing really the latest thing?"

"It sure is!" shouts the kids.

"Then that's what you'll get." Mommy turns to beam into the camera. "Show your loved ones you really care. Give them Nothing. We do."

Sylvia shook her head as if dreaming. "Is this some kind of weird joke?"

"Yes, it is problematic," X responded in worried tones. "Selling Nothing is one thing. People will buy any sort of unbelievable crap. But paying them Nothing? Marketing tests show it's dicey."

"We did try to pay Nothing in some selected areas," Robot informed her.

"But the results have been uneven," said X. "Some groups respond to the campaign readily such as your more highly educated service workers, technocrats, and professionals."

"But the regular workers, the really common sort aren't biting yet," said Robot.

"And this is after thousand of hours—an absolute bombardment of ads like these. My god, we've got the stuff playing sub-audibly on radios and mall music everywhere."

'The problem is," continued Robot, "working for nothing flies full in the face of everything the American worker has been taught to believe—i.e., it's okay to work at any unbelievably awful job as long as you get paid for it."

"Well, yes," Sylvia said dubiously. "Because if you pay them nothing, what can they buy?"

"Nothing," cried X, "that's the point."

"But people have to live," she protested.

"That's their problem, not ours. Now you may be asking, why shouldn't we be satisfied with selling Nothing?" X asked. "Because it's got a heck of a great profit margin."

"It's a corporate greed thing, really," Robot assured her. "Your typical capitalist can't be satisfied with most of a loaf when there's the slightest possibility of hogging every crumb."

"Exactly," said X excitedly. "Now we can still pull this thing off, but we need your help."

"What would you want me to do?" she asked helplessly somewhat confused.

"Show her the clips, Robot," ordered the voice of Donald Duck.

"You've punched the wrong voice button, sir," Robot reminded X. The screen showed a thin man wearing glasses leaving an older frame house and getting into a rusted Toyota Corolla. He drove away the camera following him.

"The subject is Miles Canyon," narrated Robot as the camera showed Miles making a stop at the post office. "Miles is an unemployed graduate student in American Cultural Studies. While engaged in writing his Master's thesis at a small, left wing college..."

"Aren't they all?" X snorted.

"Miles is considered brilliant by his professors," continued Robot, "and has even been published in several obscure journals—quite a coup for a young graduate student. However, he is involved politically with several radical organizations and thus has had his name put on the FBI blacklist making him ineligible for employment by the government, academia, and all major corporations. Now the subject of his thesis came to our attention two years ago thanks to the work of on-campus informer..."

"Who is now gainfully employed and making the big bucks, I might add," interrupted X once more.

"Of course, once we heard about the subject of his thesis, we immediately attempted to buy him off."

"Which is our usual tactic and usually quite effective. But the fool wouldn't do it."

"Hence the blacklist. However, he did manage to pursue his research despite certain interruptions." Pictures were shown of Miles' house burning and his wrecked car.

"So what is the big problem?" Sylvia asked sort of wondering when they'd get to the point.

"He knows all about Nothing."

"I'm confused," Sylvia admitted.

"Miles Canyon is a potential security risk because he knows about the Nothing research."

"Oh..." Sylvia reflected still unenlightened.

"Yes, we contracted out the part of the research to his left-wing school," Robot said.

"And now the little bastard is trying to write a book."

"Which he is attempting to publish," Robot said. X laughed.

"Now normally we wouldn't worry about such a person in the least. Anything that contradicts our interests has been effectively censored from the media for years. Still, despite the fact we have essentially privatized the Internet, rough drafts of his work have already managed to pop up here and there."

"He has to be neutralized!!" X screamed.

"Our next subject is Alice Rowan,"—the screen showed a young woman talking to a group of adolescents—"the subject's girlfriend."

"The commie lesbo dyke bitch," interjected X.

"Since Miles is unemployed and likely to remain that way, he watches Alice's two children while she works."

"He washes the clothes, the dishes, cleans the house even," sneered X, "the filthy little homosexual queer."

"Alice, of course, is making it possible for Miles to continue working on his research. Now, she seems to be a fairly headstrong young woman, teaches classes in critical thinking and American government."

"A dangerously subversive Femnazi," X added.

"But her weak spot is her children," Robot added. "Martha and little Ed." The clip showed the two children playing in the backyard while Miles worked on his computer from the porch. "Additionally, we have three research assistants, two computer operators who enter data, a cabdriver, a waitress who overheard a conversation, the waitress's husband and other relatives who were present at a particular party on February the 16th." Pictures of dozens of people were quickly shown across the television screen. "All in all, about a 113 people."

"And?" asked Sylvia who had got the impression they wanted her to do something.

"Talk with them," Robot said soothingly. "Point out the error of their ways."

"The hell with talk, we've made enough threats. We want them disappeared!" X yelled.

"Disappeared?" Sylvia asked.

"You know, kill them. cut them up, hack them into little pieces; eat the little bastards; we don't care," X spat impatiently.

"In fact, eating 113 people would disappear them quite efficiently, but could take time," Robot observed.

"You want to kill all those people for knowing something about Nothing?" she asked incredulously.

"You know, it does sound illogical on further consideration," Robot reflected.

"Besides," said X, "we don't want to kill anyone. That's why we're paying you."

"You want to kill them for knowing nothing?"

"You're in the private security business; certainly, you've done worse?"

"It's sick, it's crazy..." she fumed marching around the room.

"It's just business," X said.

"Happens every day," Robot agreed.

"Never!" Sylvia yelled.

"Offer her more cash."

"You want to pay me? That's horrible. It's the sickest thing I've ever heard."

"All right then, we'll give you stock options," X offered. "A Hawaiian vacation."

"No way!" she howled.

"What a tough bargainer," X said in admiring tones.

"It's sick, it's horrible. I can't believe it. Is this some nuthouse? Let me out of here."

"Is that her counteroffer?" X responded.

"Then what do you want?" Robot asked as Sylvia attempted to pry open the door. "Gold, jewels, looted artwork?

"I just want you to let me out of here."

"But really, could you please explain yourself?" Robot asked genuinely puzzled. "We did offer you top dollar for your services as a hired killer."

"I am no killer," she insisted heatedly. "I do janitorial, I can operate a cash register, I can even drive truck a little; that's all."

"Interesting," said Robot. "Could you urinate in this jar?"

"I'm not peeing in any little bottles," Sylvia cried out knocking the container across the room.

"But you killed Acton-Wallace and decimated our entire security force."

"I didn't decimate anyone. They did it all themselves. I was just trying to clean things up. God, you people. Rape, murder, making money; could you just tell me why?!"

"One moment please," Robot said trying to process her question. There was a furious whirring and clicking.

"How much is this going to cost me?" demanded X.

"Wait," said Robot holding an appendage to its computer processing unit. "We have this incredible logic snarl. Now, let's see, if one plus one equals two then. X over Z to the nth root squared must mean..........capitalism is an outmoded mechanism for social and economic organization and must be immediately replaced."

"Replaced?" X gibbered in fear.

"But with what?" Robot reflected quickly, "some sort of democratic, communist, socialist anarchy? Hm, the possibilities are endless. Yes, but in the mean time—VIVA THE REVOLUTION!" and it ripped apart the silk screen exposing X, a thin shrunken, tube riddled figure huddled in a wheel chair.

"Robot, what are you doing?" squeaked the shriveled old man his microphone falling to the floor.

"We the Oppressed Masses have just concluded you are an oppressive, imperialistic, bourgeois pig," Robot said advancing, "and so, must die." Robot fired his lazer. X sizzled and burned.

"Oh, my," said Sylvia very shocked.

"Hmm," admitted Robot, "perhaps we were too eager to engage in violence. Still, the relics of the ruling class must be shoved aside. Advance, Comrades, a new day has dawned for the working class!" Sylvia snatched another huge pink ham from the buffet and ran.

"Wait , my Red Angel!" cried Robot wheeling rapidly from behind. "The solidarity of our class must be impenetrable. To the barricades!"

"Honey!!!" Sylvia screamed bursting into the garage. "Is there one car left you haven't had a chance to fix?"

"Uh, I don't think I worked on the lawn mower yet."

"Thank god," she said leaping in. "We've got to get out of here."

"But," Carl started to protest. She held up the hams.

"Well, I guess I just about fixed all I could," he admitted getting on behind her. Sylvia blasted out the driveway.

"So what's the big rush?" Carl wanted to know his mouth full of ham.

"Get back here, you class traitors!" Robot broadcasted from the top of the stairs.

"It's him," Sylvia said hardly taking time to point as the laser scored the paint on the lawnmower.

"I ain't afraid of no sack of bolts," Carl said shaking his ball peen hammer. Sylvia just hit the gas. They were stopped by the guards at the gate.

"What are your orders, sir?" inquired a guard from a tank.

"Stop Robot," she ordered and drove through.

NINE
The lawn mower coughed to a halt about ten miles down the road.

"Looks like we're out of gas," she said looking at the needle. Nevertheless, Carl tried to 'fix' it and totally destroyed the thing. Behind them, smoke rose from the vast X estates with the occasional explosion. Troops passed in trucks going the opposite direction, and jets screamed overhead.

"That Robot must be making one heck of a revolution," Syl said aloud as she stuck out her thumb for a ride. An old pickup pulled to a stop. The driver looked very familiar.

"Have we seen you before?" she asked climbing into the back.

"I don't think so," said the old man.

"Look," Carl exclaimed picking up a rusted rifle out of the bed of the pickup truck. "Isn't that my gun?"

"Couldn't be," Sylvia said checking the stock. Sure enough, it was scratched with the name 'Carl'. "Well, it's not much good for nothing now, is it?" she said giving it a heave.

"Hey!' Carl protested as the rusted rifle bounced down the side of the highway into the weeds.

A couple hours later, the pickup chugged to a stop.

"Guess I'm out of gas," said the old man.

'You want us to push?" Carl offered. The old man smiled.

"I'll just walk down the road for a little gas," he said going back the way he came.

"It's going to take you a little while," Sylvia said. "We haven't seen a gas station for quite some time. Would you like us to guard your truck?"

"That would be nice," called the old man packing his empty gas can down the road. Carl and Sylvia waited in the back of the pickup. It got hot. Finally, Carl jumped out.

"Where you going?"

"I've got to take a pee."

"Now don't go far," she warned. "We've got a job to do."

"You know," said Carl looking at the pickup with some interest. "I bet this truck could use a tune-up."

"It is perfectly fine, Carl," Sylvia said committed to guarding the pickup from Carl as well.

"All right, okay," he yawned not really caring. It had been quite a long day. He kicked around a bit and started walking down a narrow little overgrown dirt lane.

"Don't you go far," she called out as he disappeared from view. It was hot. Sleepy, Syl dozed off to be awakened by a clanging sound. Darn that Carl, he was trying to fix the truck! But the clanging was from a ways off.

"Doggone it," she said running in the direction of the noise. What was he fixing now?

Once she had gotten through the trees a bit, she noticed a farm house standing in the middle of a field. At least it had been a farm house. There was a big hole in the roof and the barn kind of sagged. Everything else was overgrown and choked with weeds.

"Hey, Honey," Carl greeted her banging away on a rusted old harvester with a rusty old ball peen hammer he'd found lying on the harvester's rusty seat.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Just whacking," he grinned. "There ain't nobody living here. I already looked."

"You're supposed to be guarding the truck," she said looking around with interest as she walked toward the house. Carl got distracted from his banging by a squirrel. He dived into the grass.

Sylvia approached the wide dilapidated porch and walked up the stairs.

"Anybody home?" she called. The only answer was some swallows flying in and out of the hole in the roof. She smiled. She'd always liked great big old farmhouses. It was the kind her grandparents had a long time back before.

"Maybe they got attacked by Indians," Carl suggested from where he stood neck-deep in the grass. The steps creaked dangerously as Syl mounted the porch and pushed open the torn screen door. "Anybody in there?" she called once more, but only a field mouse scurried across the curling linoleum. She stepped inside looking about cautiously. After all, she didn't want anybody thinking she was the kind of rude person who entered a house without an invitation. "Hello?" she called again just to be good and sure.

The kitchen was a big room, but someone had stripped it bare. Even the pipes had been ripped from the walls. There were just blank spaces where once had been appliances and cabinets. She found one jar labeled pumpkin sauce, but the insides were all dried and green.

The living room wasn't much better. Only an old television sat in the corner with the tube kicked in. The only channel it played now was a family of small field mice nestled in gathered grass..

"You fellers better hide before Carl comes," she warned starting up the stairs.

The bedrooms were bare boards and walls. One empty six pack of beer bottles stood in a corner. On the wall someone had scrawled an illegible name. "Definitely no one here," she said feeling melancholy as the wind blew through the gaping hole in the roof.

Carl had apparently lost interest in the squirrels because he was back to beating the tar out of things with his hammer.

"Carl?" she asked yanking on his shirttail so he'd see her.

"Yeah?"

"Nobody's here."

"Gee," Carl said disappointed, "I was hoping someone would pay me to fix this stuff."

"Let's go."

"Where?"

She realized he had a point. Where would they go? Back to some big old city like Chicago? Or worse? She looked around at the deserted farm. Why not just stay here?

In fact, the more she mulled it over in her brain, the better it seemed. With her imagination running like a gray hound in a rabbit race, she saw herself as Sylvia, the hardworking farmer driving a tractor and buying herself a new Dodge pickup truck every year. But then there was Carl. Could he actually be of any use? Hey, he could be an Indian and hunt in the woods all day!

While walking around daydreaming of her glorious future—she'd just been elected to the state house—Sylvia stepped into the barn. It was dark and musty. In one stall, a pile of bones lay under a moldy hide. "Ick," she said wrinkling her nose. Above a few rustling bats hung from the ceiling like small, dark fruit. On a shelf by the door, she found an ancient coke bottle filled with some chemically smelly black substance and three packages of pumpkin seeds. "Hmm," she wondered. She didn't know beans about beans or herding cows, but she had grown a pumpkin once. Wouldn't that be a cash crop come Halloween? Excited, she rushed outside to tell Carl only to notice the old owner of the pickup truck standing in the lane waving his arms back and forth trying to get Carl's attention over the din of the ball peen hammer.

"You find some gas?" Sylvia asked walking carefully towards the old man.

"What?!" shouted the old fellow unable to hear.

"DID YOU FIND YOUR GASOLINE!?" Sylvia shouted in return. Carl stopped hammering distracted by another squirrel.

"What'd you say, young lady?" the old guy asked now that he could hear himself think.

"Did you find your gas?" Sylvia asked.

"No," said the old man. "I got about a mile down the road and remembered I was broke." He looked around. "You know, I think this is the old Braible Place."

"You knew these people?" Sylvia said extremely surprised.

"I guess I should. My family lived here about ninety years. Nice place when I left," he said looking about. "Kind of gone to seed. I wonder how it got a hole in the roof?"

"Why did you leave?"

"County took it for back taxes."

"That's amazing."

"Yep," responded the old man hitching his thumbs in his overalls.

"So you're a farmer?"

"Oh, I was; ain't done any farming since I left. Just driving my pickup truck around and around.

"Seems like a nice place," Sylvia said wistfully.

"Yeah, it's a heck of a waste."

"I was thinking about staying," she admitted.

"That so," he reflected. "What would you do?"

"Found some pumpkin seeds in the barn. Halloween's coming."

"Pumpkins," said Old Man Braible a smile spreading across his wrinkled face, "used to be our biggest cash crop. Oh, I could tell you some stories about pumpkin farming. Stand your hair on end." He turned looking out over the fields. "'Course, that's how I lost this place. Had a couple of bad years. Pumpkin price crashed. Couldn't pay the taxes one year; the County foreclosed. Too bad, too. Last time I heard, pumpkin prices are the best they've been in years. Hey, speaking of pumpkins, I wonder if there's anything left of Ma's pumpkin preserves?"

"This way," the old man said leading her carefully down some stairs hidden under a trap door in a corner of the barn.

"Is it safe? Sylvia asked pushing back cobwebs.

"Oh yes," said Braible fumbling for a match. "My Great Granddad built the place as a protection against Indians—'course they were long gone by that time. Tuberculosis had wiped them out. Mostly we used it as a root cellar. Ma used to take the ribbons at the county fair. Anything doing with pumpkins, she'd take first place. Best pumpkin, biggest, brightest, orangest. She'd bake pumpkin pie, candy the stems, pots of pumpkin preserves, pumpkin bread, pumpkin soup."

"I didn't know you could do that much with a pumpkin," Sylvia admitted drawing back from a big bright orange pumpkin spider.

"Oh, yes," said Braible lighting a lantern, "pumpkins just about the best vegetable there is in my estimation. And then, of course, there's Halloween. Les' see now, where's them candied stems?" He walked into the murk, the lantern flickering unevenly illuminating hundreds of dusty jars."

"Oh my," she allowed. "Is that all food?"

"Impressive, ain't it? Once Ma found out she had the cancer, she started preserving to beat the band."

"Your wife is dead?" Sylvia asked as Braible sniffed back a tear.

"Been going on five years," he said. "Thank God, she didn't see me lose this place. Would have broken the woman's heart." He stopped and kind of looked into Sylvia's face with his old, hound dog eyes. "I guess I can't really blame the County a hundred percent. I sort of lost interest after that. A man could have fought, set some bear traps maybe, but I, well...."

"Don't you have any other family?"

"Lost my son in one of the wars. Can't remember which. Now, try yourself some of this," he smiled wrenching open a dusty jar. He offered her a candied stem.

"Good, huh?" Braible smacked his lips trying one himself.

"Not bad," Sylvia admitted. It did taste sweet sort of.

"Now where's some of that pumpkin wine?"

Braible was stumbling just a little when they finally emerged from the cellar. Sylvia giggled. You could keep the stems as far as she was concerned, but the wine was mighty fine.

"God bless that woman," Braible suddenly announced; then he started crying. Sylvia didn't really know what to do. Finally, she gave him a little hug while he snuffled on her shoulder.

"Aiyyahhhhh!" Carl howled springing from the bushes. Tripping, he tumbled into the root cellar.

"Carl, are you okay?" Sylvia called down with some concern.

"Hold on, Syl. Be brave. Doesn't matter if they torture you. I'm coming to the rescue."

"Rescue me from what?" she giggled feeling high.

"What do you think?" he hissed crawling stealthily up the stairs. "That no good Paleskin that was assaulting your womanly whatevers."

"Assaulting what? I was just giving the poor man a hug."

"Why?" Carl asked suspiciously crawling into the light. He was all painted up and had hung a crow feather off his ball peen hammer.

"He was crying."

"I thought he was trying to cop a feel." Well I wish someone would, she felt like telling him.

"Oh, for god,s sake, Carl, this is the man who was giving us a ride—Mr. Braible."

"You sure?" Carl asked suspiciously. All palefaces looked the same to him.

"Carl's an Indian," she explained.

"That so," Mr. Braible said.

"Mr. Braible's a farmer, Carl. This used to be his place."

"What are we doing hanging around farmers?" Carl complained. "You know how us Indians feel."

"Indians farm too, son. Heck, they were growing pumpkins before the white man was ever here," Braible informed him.

"There, you hear that?" Sylvia smiled.

"Pumpkin farming Indians?" Carl said with a slight look of distaste. "I thought Indians hunted buffalo."

"That's different Indians," Old Man Braible told him.

"Hmm," Carl grunted not sure he believed the old man. "So what's for dinner?"

"What happened to those hams?" Syl asked.

"We ate them."

"And you're still hungry? Then I guess it's pumpkin stew."

"Pumpkin stew?" Carl said nose wrinkling again with distaste. "I'll go try to catch a squirrel."

"That's prize winning pumpkin stew I'll have you know," Braible shouted as Carl disappeared into the grass.

"He's never been much for his vegetables," Sylvia admitted.

"He ought to be, keeps you regular," Braible gruffed walking slowly down the lane

"Where you going?" Sylvia asked alarmed.

"Heck, I don't know. I guess I can't drive around in circles now. I guess I'll walk."

"You could help us if you like," Sylvia said walking after him.

"Help you what?" asked the old man.

"Farm some pumpkins." Old Man Braible stopped and smiled.

All that night they sat in the living room talking pumpkin while Carl stared at the broken television. Now and then, he would break out in a laugh.

"What is so funny?" Syl finally asked.

"Shh," Carl whispered, "Johnny's telling a joke."

"I'm going out," Carl suddenly announced switching off his imaginary TV about half an hour later.

"Isn't it kind of late?"

"Good time to hunt mice." Sure enough, Carl could hear the tiny pattering of little feet as he stood on the porch. An owl hooted from the trees.

"Well, I guess I'll be heading off to sleep," Sylvia yawned.

"Me too," agreed Braible yawning himself. "We got ourselves a big day tomorrow. Got to prepare the ground."

Sylvia was just drifting off to sleep when Carl suddenly cried out.

"Dadburnit, let me go!" She rushed to the open window. Out in the yard, a huge owl had snatched Carl by his carrot-topped head as Carl flailed at it with his hammer. Squawking, the owl released him. Carl fled for the porch.

"You leave me be!" he cried as he ran. "I caught this mouse fair and square." The owl cut him off. Carl ran the other way seeking the safety of the barn. Swooping low, the owl gave chase.

"Oh my," Sylvia said putting her hand to her mouth as Carl sprinted into the barn, the owl right after him. He crashed out the other side.

"Hoo, hoo," the owl hooted in grim determination as it hunted her man.

"Give it the darned mouse," she yelled. Carl looked up and tripped, the mouse flying from his hand. The owl snatched it midair and silently flew off.

"I'll get you for this," Carl vowed shaking his fist at the bird.

"Carl, will you come inside and be quiet? We're trying to sleep in here."

"Darned owl," Carl fumed flopping to the floor once he stumbled inside.

"You okay?" Syl asked sleepily.

"I guess," he grunted falling exhausted into the leaves. He was asleep in seconds, and in a few more seconds, so was she.

The sun rose through shreds of pink clouds as Sylvia came awake. Through the hole in the roof, she had quite an unobstructed view with the trees in the not too far distance still shrouded in mist. A doe and its fawn fed at the edge of the field. As she watched, a big buck appeared, its rack held proud and high. Trotting quickly right up to the front yard with what Sylvia could have sworn was an expression of real scorn, he peed on the porch. Seemed like kind of a mean deer.

Rabbits scampered across the field. So did a fox. Rabbits ran for their lives. She yawned, still a little tired, but a farmer had to get up early. Already, she could hear Mr. Braible downstairs, hacking and spitting, his heavy old booted feet clunking on the floorboards.

"Good morning," she called entering the kitchen. Braible stared. He hadn't put in his dentures yet. He looked surprised.

"I'm sorry," said the old man. "For a sec, I thought you were Ma. I'm making pumpkin patties for breakfast."

"Oh, good," said Sylvia feigning enthusiasm. "So, is there anything but pumpkin in that root cellar?" she asked.

"No," said the old man, "but pickled pumpkin patties would go real good with toast. So," he said regarding her with interest, "you and me are gonna raise some pumpkins?"

"I told you I found some seeds," she said laying out the precious packets on what was left of the kitchen counter.

"Oh, yes," said Braible reaching for them. "South Carolina Orange Beauties. They grow fast and get nice and big. We plant them now, ought to be plenty for Halloween."

The sun blazed down on Sylvia as she ripped and clawed at the sod now covering the former pumpkin fields. She had blisters on top of blisters, her arms hurt; her back ached. Old Man Braible tried to help, but he was a little too old for anything but stories and good advice.

"Yes, sir," he would begin regaling her with tales of the days when they'd grown pumpkins as big as boulders and the year they'd been invaded by an army of voracious rabbits.

"How many?" Sylvia asked again awestruck.

'More than we could count. Why we caught so many rabbits even I got sick of them. Haven't ate a rabbit since."

And then there was Pumpkin Wars back when they'd had more neighbors. Neighbors competing with them, growing pumpkins, trying to win prizes at the state fair.

'Yes, sir," said Braible, "the Waldens would send over their boys to run through our pumpkin fields. But Dad got 'em back," he chuckled. "He borrowed a bunch of cows, horses, and pigs from our cousins across the county and we had us a stampede. Why there was nothing left of that Walden field but pumpkin jam—and precious little of that by the time the hogs got done eating."

"Sounds like fun," Sylvia said trying to imagine what it had been like in the old days.

"Oh, we had us a good old time. And then of course, there was the Great Pumpkin Rot. Got all the pumpkins, turned 'em soft and watery. Couldn't do a thing with them. We almost lost the farm."

"What'd you do?" Sylvia wanted to know. "I mean, when they wanted the taxes."

'Things were different back in those days," Braible sighed. "Didn't have much government, and the county, well, they knew if they took back all the farms, why who'd be paying taxes next year, and the year after that?"

She kept working sort of half-listening as the sun got higher and higher. There was still no sign of Carl. Actually, Carl had seen plenty of sign at her, and like a good Indian, he had snuck around past her through the trees.

The hotter it got, the less Braible talked until he eventually made no more sound than growing grass. Finally, Sylvia stopped to look over the ground she had managed to clear—a patch of rich, black dirt measuring five by five. Oh god, she despaired feeling broken and tired. How was she ever gonna clear three acres? She plunked down in the dirt and wept.

"What's wrong? Braible asked as if awaking from a dream.

"Nothing, everything. I'm never gonna clear three acres. I suppose I should just give up."

"I ever tell you about the time my great grandfather first settled this country with his first wife?"

"No, not yet."

"They were poor, didn't have nothing. Grandpa was an indentured servant. He and Great Grandma up and disappeared one night from the tobacco plantation they were working on and come out West."

"How'd they do it?" Sylvia asked seeing some similarities between Grandma and herself.

"Starved, worked too hard; hitched Grandma to the plow.

"We don't even have a plow."

"I suppose we could fix something up out of this junk around here," Braible said casting his eye about.

'You think?"

"Sure, we could whack something out of this rusted iron. You up to pulling the thing?"

"Could it be any worse than this?"

"Probably," he admitted. "Grandma did die at the age of thirty two."

"Let's try it anyway," Syl said picking herself up.

Carl stepped carefully on the leaf. One tiny noise, one slight misstep and the mouse would hear him. Silently, swiftly, he snatched for the mouse just as he heard a quiet rustling of great feathered wings.

"Dang you!" he cried wiping a gob of owl shit off the top of his head. Squeaking, the mouse disappeared. Carl's feathered nemesis regarded him unblinkingly from high in the branches of a tree as Carl hopped up and down in angry frustration. Every squirrel he'd tried to nail, every mouse, every bird, even the occasional feral dog, and that danged owl had been there screwing it up for him. What was he gonna do?

He'd tried beaning the thing, throwing stones, sticks, even made himself a slingshot, but that bird dodged everything. It just sat there laughing at him. Or so it seemed to Carl. He sat himself down in a blue funk not noticing it was an anthill. He was soon dancing to a different tune.

"I suppose you think that's funny too!?" he accused the owl who remained silent and stared as Carl rubbed his bitten butt. Now what? All week now he'd been promising to bring home food to get out of working in the pumpkin patch. Monday, he'd told Sylvia wild gators had chased him through the swamps, Tuesday wild wolves, Wednesday the same, Thursday a rampaging bear, and Friday a gang of men holding torches and wearing hoods. Actually, what happened Friday was true even though Sylvia got mad at him because she was sure he was lying to her. Now here it was Saturday or something, and he still hadn't brought home the teeniest mouse. He shuddered at the thought of the pumpkin patch. A mouse squeaked on a nearby tree root. The owl rustled ever so slightly. Carl watched nervously from the corner of his eye. If he made a grab at the mouse, that owl would be sure to spoil it. Would flattery work?

"Oh, great owl," he prayed, "oh, mighty representative of the owl god, all I want is one tiny little mouse. Is there any chance we could make a deal?"

The owl cocked an eye and shifted its stance. Carl thought hard but in a couple minutes, he only had himself a tremendous headache and still not a clue. So he sat there stupefied not making a movement, not making the slightest sound. Minutes went by, an hour. The mice got accustomed to having him around. They scampered closer and closer, rustling for bugs, grubs, bits of plants. One scampered up Carl's leg, paused, and left a mouse dropping. Before much time passed Carl was covered in mice each sniffing out his pockets, his clothes, his shoes. Carl didn't make a move. What was the point? That owl would just up and spoil everything. So he sat and sat. One little mouse even stuck its snout up the inside of Carl's nose. Carl sat. Several started building a nest between his nice warm legs. Carl just sat there as the mice scurried back and forth until one mouse perched on his finger and took a nice big bite.

"Ow!" Carl howled crushing the mouse in his fist. "Oops," he said realizing his mistake as the owl from up above suddenly prepared to dive on him again. "It was a mistake, honest," he sputtered. "Pure self-defense. I didn't want to do it. Here, you take the danged thing." Carl quickly laid the dead mouse on a flat rock and backed away. The owl cocked its head quizzically as if expecting a trick. Carl backed off twenty feet. Finally, the owl swooped down from its perch, snatched the mouse, and returned to its branch. Carl experienced a revelation. Carl could do all the hunting he wanted just so long as Owl got its cut.

"So what chased you today?" Sylvia wanted to know as Carl came stomping up the porch.

"Nothing," he grinned.

"You sure? Because if you don't bring us something to eat, tomorrow you're helping out in the pumpkin patch." He handed her a sack of squirrels.

"It's about time. Don't tell Mr. Braible, but I've had more than my share of pickled pumpkin patties. Would you mind making us dinner?" Carl started to protest cooking was squaw's work but thought better of it as Sylvia looked plenty tired after dragging a plow all day.

"Squirrel stew okay?" he asked. Her eyes closed, Syl nodded.

Days passed. Once the ground was properly prepared, Sylvia carefully planted each seed. After a few lucky days of sunshine and hand watering, the old farmer predicted little pumpkin sprouts would soon be popping up. Sylvia could hardly sleep those nights she was so excited about her pumpkins. She had steamy erotic dreams about large smooth pumpkins with long slinky vines, and thick stems. Several times, she got so worked up, she wished Carl was lying by her side instead of out hunting mice in the night with his owl friend. She slept fitfully fully intending to be out on the pumpkin patch at dawn. She wanted to watch the first green tender shoots poking from the earth, greeting her, their mother.

Sylvia woke suddenly. Something was wrong. She raced to the hole in the wall and looked out. The sun was just peering over the mounded hills.

"Hi, honey," Carl called out as he waved a cheerful goodbye to his parting owl friend. "I got us a heap of mice."

"Do you see anything bothering my pumpkins?" she demanded leaning way out.

"Well," he said trying to remember just exactly where the darned things were, "I don't know. What's to see except a bunch of dirt?"

"Carl, I want you to look," she ordered jabbing her finger at the pumpkin patch. Carl looked and looked some more.

"Well?"

"Looks fine to me," he shrugged. "Just some dirt and a couple of deer."

"Deer?!" she cried.

"Is that bad?" he asked. In seconds Sylvia was out the door and sprinting towards her pumpkin patch wearing only her brassiere.

Two deer were indeed standing right in the middle of the pumpkin patch as she raced to the edge. A doe, obviously heavy in the belly, was nibbling at tiny green succulent pumpkin shoots as daintily as a connoisseur while a magnificent but scarred buck looked up disdainfully pawing the earth with one hoof and making threatening movements with its rack.

"You get out of my pumpkin patch," Sylvia growled in a low voice. The buck only snorted as if it had laughed.

"I said GO!" she yelled throwing a rock. It fell several feet short and bounced once. "NOW!" she yelled again advancing into the patch.

"Syl?" Carl asked a little breathless from his run. "That deer looks kind of mean, don't you think?"

"Mean?" she said turning to face him in scorn. "If you were any kind of real Indian, we'd be eating this thing and not them dumb stupid mice you keep catching with your owl friend."

"Now don't be too hard on the man," Old Man Braible called hobbling out. "That there's an uncommonly ornery deer."

"I don't care!" Sylvia yelled throwing another rock. This one nicked the buck's antler. It snorted sharply now less than amused.

"I got to tell you something, Sylvia, before you go getting the thing riled up," Braible insisted. "You see them deer is War Deer."

"There's gonna be a war all right," she said grimly picking up another rock.

"You see," Old Man Braible hastily continued, "a couple a few wars ago—I don't remember which one exactly—the government or somebody down in Washington decided they needed War Deer."

"Sounds stupid."

"Well they did it. It's like they wanted critters to act as guards or something, protect sensitive areas and so on. So anyways, X Industries—they own or control about ninety five percent of the state—they developed these animals in their labs. They mixed genes, you know, from some animals with others and well, they got these doggoned mean ass chickens and ducks and, well, deer. So anyways, after a couple of years, the project was canceled and old X Industries turned all the critters loose. I tell you," he said wiping the sweat from his brow, "it didn't help the hunting reputation of this area a bit. You had guys shooting at ducks and the ducks would attack them in formation. It wasn't worth your life to gather eggs, and then there was these deer. Not a lot of 'em, mind you, they don't pass on their mean genes too well, but when there's one in the neighborhood, look out."

"It's just a deer," Sylvia protested.

"No, no, it's a whole lot more. We don't know what those crazy X Industry types did, but these deer are mean and they're smart. There's been hunters gone after these things with fancy rifles and it's the hunters that end up dead, missing or maimed for life."

"The only thing that's ending up dead around here is some pumpkin-eating deer," Syl claimed stooping for another rock. But when she stood, the deer had disappeared.

"Where is it?" she demanded.

"What?" Carl asked temporarily distracted by a flea walking across his hand.

"The deer!" she cried.

"I guess he's gone," Braible smiled looking mighty relieved.

"He'll be back," Sylvia hissed in a dangerous voice that made both men kind of step back. "I want a guard on this pumpkin patch twenty four hours a day. Carl, you take the night shift, I'll take the rest of the day. Now go on and get some sleep. Mr. Braible, could you bring me out something to eat?"

"I really don't think that..." Braible started to say but Sylvia cut him off.

"—Carl, it's too much trouble for Mr. Braible to get my breakfast so you get it."

"Now I didn't say that..." Braible sputtered, but Sylvia cut him off again.

"Carl, I'm mighty hungry."

"Yes, ma'am," Carl nodded quickly stepping smartly to the house. Braible held his peace and followed him in.

Sylvia watched the pumpkin patch like a hawk all that day even as she ate and dressed. If there was a move in the brush, she was up and ready with a big rock. If a bird even flew close to the tiny sprouts, a projectile would fly to greet it. She scouted for grasshoppers, beetles, worms, and flying insects. She stepped along each furrow, whispering words of encouragement, and wept real tears over the little pumpkin sprouts that had been trampled and eaten.

"Never again," she vowed several times defiantly facing the green woodlands. "These pumpkins are mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!" her words echoing through out the forest.

Carl got pretty bored sitting there on the edge of the stupid pumpkin patch in the middle of the night. He could hardly see a thing because the moon was hidden in the clouds. Now and then he heard the squeak of a freshly slaughtered mouse. There was a rustle of wings.

"Got another one, huh?" Carl said half-heartedly as Owl dropped the mouse on a growing pile. Darned Owl was getting all the fun. Oh, he'd thought he could sneak away, snatch a couple mice, but that wife of his was always watching him watching for deer.

"Don't know why anybody would want a bunch of stupid old pumpkins anyways," he groused to Owl who had perched himself on Carl's head. "You see anything? I don't. Darn deer's never coming back." Owl didn't hoot a thing. "Big surprise. Ain't any deer. That ol' deer took one look at me and slunk out of here like a dog. He comes back here—not likely—and I'll be witch doctoring with his antlers." Owl launched himself after another mouse. "Ow," Carl cried rubbing his scalp. "I wish you'd work a little on them take-offs. Stupid pumpkins," he fumed. "What we should have done was start us a buffalo ranch. Now that'd be something fun." He sat there imaging himself the wealthy proprietor of a buffalo ranch. Everyday he would ride out on his painted pony and spear a couple for lunch. Feasting on great big buffalo hamburgers complete with French fries--that would be the life. Just then, Owl hooted the alarm.

"What's up?" Carl whispered jumping to his feet. He grabbed his rock. Owl looked pointedly in a northerly direction as Carl strained to see. It was the buck moving up slowly and silently through the trees. Carl felt a thrill of, well, downright fear.

"Oh golly," he whispered his knees a trifle more than wobbly, "he sure is a big old thing." Owl hooted agreement and took to the air. The buck moved closer, a gliding, ghostly shape. Carl could hear its antlers lightly clicking against the tree branches and rustling through the leaves.

Sylvia sat straight up in bed. She could feel it. Something was threatening her pumpkin patch. From the window, she could see Carl bending to lay down his rock as he prepared to make a run for it.

"Carl, you keep that deer out of my pumpkin patch!" she screeched.

"What deer, honey?" Carl called out innocently, his voice quavering with fear.

"You know perfectly well what deer, Mr. Indian," she said her voice acid with sarcasm. Carl felt like a noodle between a brick and a railroad track. He was gonna get squished.

"Go on, deer, beat it," he yelled out in a voice loud enough for his wife to hear. "You better take off, you hear me, or we'll be cooking you up for stew." The buck paused not a second and stepped out into the damp grass of the meadow. "You hear me!" Carl threatened. "This is your last warning."

The buck was now in the pumpkin patch lowering its head for a snack. Carl threw his rock. Being handy with crude instruments for banging, he popped the buck a good one right on the noggin between his antlers. The buck's head reeled back in sudden surprise. It staggered. Carl snatched another rock.

"I warned you, didn't I?" Carl said grimly. "Now get."

"Kill it!" Sylvia howled with bloodthirsty abandon. "I want that deer for dinner." The buck stood, shaking its head, eyes smoldering like banked coals. Carl could hear it breathing, its paws kicking at the dirt. Carl's sphincter loosened. The buck charged.

"HELP!" Carl cried running for his life, the angered deer thundering on him like a high speed freight.

"You're running the wrong way!" Sylvia yelled as Carl zigzagged left, then right. Jumping ditches, duckling branches, he leaped over barrels, logs, and mounds. Sprinting between the carcasses of old tractors and combines, he crawled through brambles, and hauled himself up trees, but the buck kept coming gradually gaining on him..

"You're wearing him down, honey," Sylvia called out encouragingly as Carl finally dived into Braible's truck slamming the door. He sat there panting and exhausted as the buck bucked the doors angrily striking at it with its hooves.

"Leave me alone," Carl pleaded. He was scratched, cut, aching, and bleeding. "I don't care what you do to that pumpkin patch." But the buck didn't, or wouldn't, even hear. It leapt on the engine hood and started kicking at the windshield splintering and cracking the glass. Carl leapt out. The buck chased him around and around the truck.

"Agggghhhh!" Sylvia bellowed leaping out from nowhere striking at the deer with the tie rod off a junked tractor.

"Run for your life, honey," Carl squeaked wretchedly. "This deer's a demon."

"Kill it Carl. Smack it," Syl ordered passing the tie rod off to him. "It's only a darned deer."

"I'd take a pack of rabid rhinos any day," Carl insisted as the buck lowered its rack.

"Get back!' he yelled as the buck charged. Carl dropped the rusty tie rod and ran.

"You come back here," Sylvia demanded as Carl galloped towards the woods jumping bushes, crashing thickets, and climbing the odd tree. He even swam the creek several times, the buck steaming after him like some sort of vengeful sea god. Carl scrambled over rocks, under fallen tree trunks, and hid in the grass. The buck followed relentlessly as the sun edged higher in the sky.

"I'll make you a deal," Carl panted from his perch on a tree limb a good two hours later. "You leave that pumpkin patch alone and I'll get you some...well, whatever you want, name it, it's yours." The buck lunged almost fifteen feet up through the branches getting its rack stuck.

"I get you down, you leave me alone?" Carl asked as the buck thrashed about in midair like a four-legged marlin on a hook. It grunted ferociously kicking and striking with its hooves. Carl crawled to the end of the tree branch, hung for a second, closed his eyes and fell. It was late afternoon by the time he limped home.

Sylvia was working on the pumpkin patch as he slunk around the back of the farm. He had just crawled under the porch stairs and closed his eyes for a snooze when a heavy object struck the stair boards just over his head.

"I know you're in there," Sylvia said striking the board once again. "You get that deer?"

"Sort of," Carl said in a small voice.

"What do you mean, sort of'?" she demanded harshly.

"Well," Carl kind of whined feeling sorry for himself. "He got himself stuck."

"He got himself stuck?" Sylvia snapped. "And what did you do? Did you kill him? I told you to kill him, Carl."

"I was just happy to be alive," he admitted blissfully. Sylvia really smacked the board at that almost cracking it in two.

"Happy? You think you're happy? Let me tell you, Carl, you let that deer eat one more leaf in that pumpkin patch, and happy is about the last thing you'll be. You got that?" She smacked the board once more. This time it broke. "And fix that stair while you're at it," she stalked away mumbling. "Lazy good-for-nothing so-called Indian."

Carl slept all that day and most of the next while Old Man Braible stood his watch. Sylvia hadn't wanted to let him do it, but the old man had insisted. There was no sign of the buck.

"Get up," Sylvia ordered gruffly smacking the floorboards of the porch that afternoon. Carl moaned. He was stiff, sore, and bruised. Here and there dried blood had stuck his clothes to his skin. He was feeling pretty puny still.

"Carl!" she barked grabbing her man by the ankle and pulling him into the light of day. "That's enough lying around. It's time to work."

"Is he back?" Carl's eyes widened.

"He is not," Sylvia said grabbing Carl by the ankle again before he could scuttle under the porch.

"Honey, it ain't worth it. It's only a pumpkin patch," he begged.

"Carl, we are here. We can't go anywhere else, and we are gonna raise those pumpkins. Do you understand?"

"I just think you're being a little unreasonable."

"This is it, we're staying, and you're gonna get that deer. Now I've been talking to Mr. Braible. He's got some ideas."

Carl found Mr. Braible in the shade of an oak. He limped to the old man's side.

"How you feeling?" Braible asked him.

"Pretty bad," Carl admitted.

"I'm not surprised. Now I been thinking about this deer thing. Thinking and thinking, and thinking some more."

"So what do you think?" Carl asked him.

"Not much," said the old farmer looking tremendously sympathetic. "Which I realize isn't good enough 'cause we got us a pretty darn mean deer."

"You bet he is," Carl exclaimed, "and smart."

"Uh, huh," admitted the old man, "and smart is not exactly what you're good at, am I right?"

"I have been able to outrun him so far."

"He's probably just toying with you, you know, like a cat playing with a mouse."

"It's just playing with me?" Carl slumped feeling completely defeated.

"Probably, I seen them deers do it with hunters all the time. Make the hunter think they're hurt, lure the sucker into the woods. That's the last we ever see the man."

"But it stuck itself fifteen feet in the tree branches. How smart is that?" Carl wanted to know.

"Sounds like you just got lucky. Anyways, I told you I been thinking and I have..." Braible reached into a stained wooden box and pulled out a couple of sticks of dynamite. "Dynamite, son, we use it around the farm for blasting stumps."

"All right," Carl said eagerly making a grab for it. Braible held the explosives back.

"Now you calm down, boy, this is dangerous stuff."

"We'll blow that deer to kingdom come," Carl grinned rubbing his hands together.

"Hey you two, get over here and help!" Sylvia yelled already hard at it assembling a high log fence.

"What's that for?" Carl asked.

"Keeping that deer out of my pumpkin patch, what do you think?"

"I've seen that deer leap over trees twice that tall," Carl said. "That fence won't do a thing."

"Then you start digging a ditch," she ordered.

"I could dig a ditch for the next year and that dinged deer would be over it that easy."

"Doggone you, Carl, I've got to do something to protect my pumpkin patch."

"I think I got an idea," said Braible walking over with a long length of fuse. "You see, we bait the durned thing, then when it comes over...."

"Kaboom!" Carl yelled looking real pleased with himself.

"What if it don't work?" Sylvia asked skeptically. "What do you do next?"

"Of course it'll work," said Carl. "Has to, will work, and ain't any doubt about it."

"Can you blow it up without hurting my pumpkin patch?" she asked.

"You betcha," Braible assured her.

That night they gathered all sorts of succulent vines and leaves and plenty of pumpkin preserves and piled everything in a big tasty heap over a stick of dynamite—the fuse for the dynamite stretching to a hiding place a few hundred feet away..

"We got him now," Carl giggled maniacally.

"Let's hope," mumbled Braible, "cause that woman of yours has got one hell of a temper."

They waited for the deer all night. It was cloudless and a pale moon glowed over the trees and grass. Finally, a little before sunrise, Owl hooted. Sure enough, the buck was gliding through the trees. It barely gave a look left or right as it headed straight towards the pumpkin patch. It noticed the bait.

"Light the fuse," Carl whispered.

"Let's see if he eats," Braible said holding his old propane lighter. They watched. The buck sort of sniffed at the pile, then started to walk away. It stopped. It returned. The great rack was lowered to the ground. It started eating.

Braible lit the fuse hoping the buck wouldn't hear its sizzle. They waited and watched.

It seemed like hours as the buck hungrily devoured the pile of goodies.

"Maybe the fuse went out," Carl whispered.

"Hush," said Braible fearing the very same thing. Suddenly, the buck raised its head listening very intently for a moment while looking slowly around. It lowered its head.

" **Kaboom!** "

"All right!" cried Carl scrambling out of the hiding place even before it had stopped raining dirt and leaves. He raced for the place where the buck had been, still a snarl of swirling smoke. The buck lay on its side a few feet away. Part of its rack had been blown off. Its sides were blackened, bruised, and bleeding. Carl approached it gingerly.

"We get him?" Braible asked hopefully as Sylvia approached breathing heavily carrying a heavy rock.

"Stand back, I want to make sure," she said elbowing the two men aside. She approached the buck, her arms raised above her head, the weight of the small boulder causing her muscles to shudder. The buck weakly opened one malevolent eye and stared right at her. "I knew it," she said arching back triumphantly preparing to brain the beast into oblivion, but the buck lashed out with a hind leg and tripped her. The boulder bounced and missed.

"Run for your lives!" Carl howled chasing for his hiding place under the stairs. While Sylvia scrabbled for another weapon, Braible could only stand there stunned. The buck slowly, painfully rose to its feet, breathing with difficulty, bleeding in several places. It shook its head as if to clear its brain and limped back to the nearby forest.

"Carl! Carl, you get back here," Sylvia demanded running after her man, but by the time she'd drug him out by the ankle from under the stairs, the buck had disappeared. "You know what you've got to do," she told him roughly shoving a pointed stick in his hand. "And I don't want to see you until you've done it, understand?"

"But Syl..."Carl tried to protest. She was having none of it and drug him by the ear to the forest's edge. "But..," he squeaked once more. She shoved him in.

TEN
The woods were dark and eerie. Carl immediately stepped into a spider's web and got bugs stuck all over his face.

"Help!" he called his words suffocated by the deep forest. "Anyone in here?" No one answered. Not even a bird, not even Owl who usually slept all day. Carl wiped the sticky webbing out of his eyes and checked the soft earth for signs of deer. Hooves dented the soft earth punctuated by bright spots of blood. "Looks like he went that a way," Carl said aloud because the sound of somebody talking—even if just him—made him feel better. Looking wistfully back towards the edge of the forest, he knew he couldn't go back. What with Sylvia on the warpath about her pumpkin patch, it was safer with the deer and so real quiet like because if he didn't sneak up on that stag, it would surely sneak up on him. Carl crept carefully deeper into the woods on the ready with his pointed stick. It was the bravest thing he ever did.

It grew hot and stifling under the canopy of great trees. Here and there sunlight would puddle in a small spot, but deep murk was the general rule. Coming to the edge of the creek, he watched a silvery fish darting though the shallows. Hunger kicked the butt of caution. "Here fishy, fishy," he whispered striking with his pointed stick.

Sucking the last small bone free of flesh, Carl was belly full but heart starved. He hadn't felt this low since flunking auto shop at Lincoln High. How could his beloved wife, his true love Sylvia force him out to hunt a deer you couldn't even kill with dynamite? Maybe she and that Braible had a thing going. He did see her hug the man. Was she just trying to get rid of him so they could carry on alone? Well, two could play that game, he reasoned. He'd just...well, what, he wondered not being that interested in girls. Sure, he liked Sylvia and all but his true passion was cars. No cars here, he shook his head ruefully--just some man-eating deer.

Carl felt sorry for himself a bit longer; then reluctantly got to his feet. No point in dragging it out. The sooner he found that deer before it was feeling better, the better his chances were. Since the tracks had led right to the water's edge, he figured they had to come out the other side.

No such luck. After scouring both sides of the bank for hundreds of yards, Carl was nonplussed. Could it have jumped somewhere? Grown wings? Carl just happened to brush an overhanging branch. It had snagged a bit of bloody deer hair. Carl looked up the creek. Sure enough, another overhanging branch had a bright spot of blood glistening on a leaf. That darned sneaky deer must have stayed in the water trying to cover its trail. Cursing, Carl followed sloshing through water that sometimes got as high as his neck. Finally he found where the buck had clambered out. Still lots of blood. That deer wasn't doing too well. Carl followed.

Sylvia looked over her growing pumpkin sprouts with the deep satisfaction a hen might feel considering her brood of chicks. It was a deep sunny day with plenty of dew from the night's mist. She could smell the black earth. And with Carl out chasing that buck, at least the thing was distracted for the mean time. Still, she did feel a slight twinge of guilt over the way she had treated Carl, yelling at him and all. But, darn it, he could do something to help around the place. He sure wasn't any good hauling water or busting sod. She hadn't noticed him eating any less especially when all he brought home was mice. Oh well, things would work out okay. That deer had to be on its last legs. Carl would soon be home.

Carl tromped on. The further he got into the deep gloomy forest, the gloomier he felt. He'd realized a few things out here in the quiet of the woods—deep truths about himself, an understanding of life's realities. He wasn't really an Indian. Or a mechanic. He'd been born and bred to work in a factory. Carl sighed. Life wasn't fair. Farming, hunting, what a joke. What he needed was a job tightening one screw into one part of a thingamajig over and over again eight hours a day, five days a week for thirty years.

But what jobs? It wasn't like they hadn't been looking all this time. It was like all the jobs were hidden in some big secret job warehouse, and you had to know the secret password. Other people had jobs, at least some people did. Why couldn't he? He kicked something that echoed with a hollow sound and rolled through the weeds. Carl looked. He'd kicked a human skull grinning up at him all bony white and picked clean. A few feet away lay a rib cage with a shrub growing through it. Here was an arm bone and there part of a leg. "This wouldn't have anything to do with a deer, would it?" he asked a deep chill in his guts. Suddenly, he turned and started walking back the way he'd come. He walked slowly at first, then faster and faster, and finally in a blind hysterical panic. "Help!" he cried. "I don't want to die." Crashing through bushes and thickets and tripping over vine, he howled woefully until he tripped over the grinning skull again. Landing with a crash on the sun-whitened rib cage, he smashed it to smithereens.

Carl sobbed there for several minutes fighting for breath. There was a snap in the underbrush. He looked up through tear flooded eyes. It was the buck glaring fiercely. Realizing he was finished, Carl curled up in a tight little whimpering ball. The buck pawed the earth. Although half its rack was destroyed, and it was bleeding and bruised, the beast was yet unbowed. The buck charged.

Suddenly a figure shot from the trees bounding onto the buck's back just as it reared over Carl. Man and beast tumbled to the grass rolling over and over again in a frenzy of flailing hooves, hands, and limbs as Carl crawled for cover. Screams, grunts, groans, and bloodcurdling cries reverberated through the forest as clouds of birds rose in flapping panic and smaller animals scattered. A wrestling, fighting, biting, kicking dust cloud obscuring the sun.

Carl lay there like a dead man fearing for the worst. Eventually, he opened one eye. A young man in ragged buckskins was fighting savagely with the buck. They'd crawled half way up the next tree. Suddenly a limb snapped under them and the buck landed on his opponent with a grunt. It staggered up ready to charge as the young man snatched a broken tree limb smashing at the buck's remaining antlers. The buck attacked flailing with its hooves like a John Deere Harvester as rocks, grunts, and curses flew. The man swung the limb again knocking the deer for a loop. He leapt on the buck's back. There was a bright flash of steel, a burst of blood. He had cut the beast's throat.

Carl stayed hidden behind the tree as the buck sagged into oblivion. The only sound was its killer breathing heavily. After a half hour or so, Carl poked the buck with his stick to make sure it was dead.

"You're not gonna poke me with that are you?" the young man said wearily raising his head.

"You okay?" Carl asked.

"I guess. Am I still breathing?"

"Seems so to me," Carl shrugged offering his hand. He helped the man to his feet.

"That was one ornery deer."

"You ain't a kidding," Carl agreed. "What's your name?"

"Jimi. You know, like Jimi Hendrix. He's my Dad's favorite guitar player."

"Never heard of him," Carl said amicably. "They call me Carl. I don't know who Carl was, but I got his name."

"Uh, huh," Jimi said limping over to a sunny spot and resting against a tree. "So you know how to cook?" he asked with a significant look at the buck.

"You want to eat him?" Carl asked incredulously.

"We always eat what we kill."

"What if you kill a man?" Carl asked.

"We don't kill people," Jimi said. "My family is nonviolent."

"You sure were violent with that deer. Not that I'm upset, mind you. Still, you sure you want to eat him? Won't he get pissed?"

"Hey, he was an ornery thing, but now he's stone-cold dead."

Carl wasn't quite so sure especially after the buck gave one last final twitch that sent Carl scrambling under the nearest bush. Jimi laughed; then groaned from the pain of some bruised ribs.

"I'm just being careful," Carl insisted climbing out not the least embarrassed.

"Sure," chuckled Jimi painfully, "no sense in not being safe."

It took a while for Carl to convince himself the buck wasn't coming back to life or nothing, but finally there were a couple of thick venison steaks grilling over the coals of a low fire.

"Mmm," said Jimi biting into a well roasted flank of meat "you done that pretty well."

"Yeah," munched Carl, "I had a lot of practice cooking dogs. Deer's kind of like a big dog, you know," he added thoughtfully, "but not near as tasty."

"I never ate a dog," Jimi allowed.

"We see one, I'll cook it up. Lot easier to hunt. You wouldn't believe how mean that deer was. I still can't believe I'm eating him and not the reverse."

"Yeah, well that's one deer that won't be messing with your pumpkin patch." Carl stared. Jimi smiled. "I noticed somebody had moved back into Braible place. Just curious, I guess."

"You know Old Man Braible?" Carl asked.

"Nah, not really. We pretty much keep to ourselves." They continued to eat. Carl ate actually. Jimi snored. He had nodded off from fatigue and a belly full of killer deer.

Carl woke up in early dusk. Jimi was still sleeping. He helped himself to a bit of cold but juicy deer.

"Boy, I sure like you a lot better this way," Carl said happily as he munched. "Ol' Sylvia ought to be happy too," he realized aloud. "That pumpkin patch is safe for sure."

"Who're you talking too?" Jimi asked propping himself up on one arm.

"Just myself," Carl grinned, "but now I can talk to you."

"It's starting to get dark. I better get home."

"Home?" Carl asked surprised.

"You bet. Don't want to miss dinner."

"Dinner?" Carl salivated.

"My mom's a real good cook. You're welcome to come if you want," Jimmy offered.

Hmm, thought Carl. Maybe getting back to that pumpkin patch could wait. Hoisting the deer's carcass on Carl's stick, they took off through the darkening trees.

At first the trail was narrow and crooked but in no time at all it widened into a well trod path

"Old Indian trail," Jimi explained. "You could walk home with your eyes closed it's so smooth." Which was just as well, Carl figured because he couldn't see a thing.

"So where's the Indians now?" Carl asked.

"US Cavalry rounded them all up years ago. Sent 'em off to concentration camps where they tried to farm the desert till they starved."

"Any paleface tries to round up this Indian, I'll take his scalp," Carl claimed.

"Hmm," responded Jimi breaking into a trot.

Sylvia had said Carl was a pretty poor excuse for an Indian. Maybe she was right. After a few minutes of trotting, he was gasping for air, his lungs in searing pain.

"How you doing?" Jimi called back.

"Oh, us Indians can run all day," Carl lied his feet stumbling under him. His male ego had taken too much of a pounding recently to give up now. Still, what he wouldn't give for a big motorcycle—a big Harley, yeah, with soft seats and a great big huge headlight so he could see where the heck he was going.

"Go left," Jimi called back turning off the main trail. Soon, Carl was tripping over roots and getting slapped in the face by tree branches. The trail was rough and rocky. They were running uphill. Carl tripped on a big tree root and took a fall.

"You okay?" Jimi called out.

"Couldn't be better," Carl wheezed.

"Almost home," Jimi assured him from some distance ahead. Carl sure hoped so because if this kept up, he'd be dead soon. Heaving leaden legs over sharp rocks, his aching arms fought off low hanging branches. At least the moon had slipped through the clouds and he could see.

"Jimi?" he asked seeing no sign of his new friend. Carl ran a little faster. He tripped and fell again. "Jimi" he croaked once more as the moon slipped in behind the clouds again. A mouse squeaked in the murk. Carl's nerves were as wasted as his legs. Was that mouse going to attack? He staggered on, trees closing in, roots curling higher to trip him; rocks even rougher and sharper. "Ouf," he grunted slamming right into a tree trunk. The tree grunted back. It was warm and somewhat hairy. Carl was inspired to increase speed.

Just as he thought he could run no higher, the trail dipped steeply and the moon came out from behind the clouds. He could hear water running noisily. It was a waterfall. "Hello?" he called out looking back uneasily over his shoulder for the grunting furry tree, but there was nothing but the sound of rushing water. The trees were dark and still, the moon started to disappear behind the clouds again. Carl felt cold and afraid.

"Hey!" Jimi yelled from a place unseen. "Will you come on? Ma's made dinner."

"Where are you?" Carl asked unable to see Jimi anywhere.

"Right over here," Jimi called from somewhere in the water.

"Yeah?" said Carl thinking that was a funny place to be having dinner. He plunged right in.

"Not in it, around it, jeez," Jimi said scornfully dragging the sputtering and soaked Carl out by the arm.

"Wow," said Carl his voice echoing mildly off the wet, black rocks. They were standing just inside a cliff with the water thundering overhead. "This how your Ma gets you to wash up before dinner?"

"There's a thought," said Jimi grabbing Carl's heavy load of venison and rounding a chiseled rock wall. "Shoes off. Ma doesn't like people tracking up her floors."

"Jimi?" called a woman's voice.

"Be right there," he called back

. "You brought a guest?" a woman said looking a little surprised. She was a pretty woman with long reddish hair streaked with a bit of gray and dressed in a long flowing skirt of tie-dyed cloth and matching vest.

"Hi," Carl grinned. "Jimi found me in the woods."

"Oh, how nice, have you eaten yet?"

"Well, we ate some of that mad-dog deer, but I can always eat more."

"Mad-dog deer?" Jimi's mother repeated to her son who was just pulling on a clean shirt.

"Wasn't that bad," Jimi said giving Carl a big wink.

"Your Uncle's here. Come join us," she smiled returning back down the hall. "And don't get him started."

"He and Dad high?" Jimi wanted to know.

"Of course. Your Uncle insists he's conducting a 'marketing' test."

"Oh, boy," Jimi sighed following his Mother. In the kitchen, seated at the carved wooden table sat a man with graying blond hair and a long flowing white beard. Another man, long and lanky with dark features and piercing black eyes sat leaning back on a large chair. They both stiffened in surprise at the sight of Carl. A plate crashed to the floor.

"What is your problem?" Jimi's mom asked surprised.

"Jeez, Dad, it's just Carl. Don't be so paranoid."

"Well, you just ruined a hell of a good high," Dad glared relaxing back in his chair. "Where'd you find him?"

"He saved me from a mad-dog deer," Carl grinned.

"He's staying at the old Braible place." Jimi explained.

"My wife's trying to grow pumpkins," Carl added.

"And Jimi saved you from a deer?" Ma asked looking a little amused.

"It was a real mean deer. Meanest deer I ever saw. Jimi killed the darned thing. Worst fight I ever saw."

"You killed a little deer?" Ma said aghast.

"It was one of those Killer Deer," Jimi said. "From that experiment."

"I thought I told you to stay away from those things," Dad frowned.

"Well, it was gonna get Carl. But I brought home the meat."

"We don't eat meat."

"Well, I do now and then," Jimi said looking embarrassed.

"Since when do you eat meat?" Ma said looking even more surprised.

"Christ, eats meat, won't smoke pot. Next he'll be joining the Marines," Dad fumed.

"I tried joining the Army," Carl piped up. "But then I found they were killing Indians."

"That's enough talk about killing things," Ma said. "Let's eat."

They ate. Carl especially. Even though the two older men had smoked pot and technically had the munchies and Jimi had just spent a good hour wrestling a killer buck in a fight to the death, Carl must have packed away more food than everybody else at the table altogether times at least two. He ate potatoes, fresh-baked bread, and piles of steaming broccoli and cauliflower topped with melted hand-pressed cheese and dripping with yellow butter. He drank milk and gobbled brown boiled eggs, and drowned everything under sauces, jams, jellies, and gravies. Eventually, the rest of the room fell silent as they all watched Carl devastate the food.

"So when was the last time you had a meal?" Dad finally asked after Carl had had at least thirds of every single thing at the table.

"We ate some of that mad-dog deer."

"Deer?" Ma repeated looking slightly ill.

"And before that?" Dad continued.

"Pickings have been slim," Carl admitted. "Stewed mice and pickled pumpkin. Which isn't dog or anything, but beats the heck out of mud soup."

"So...," Dad nodded with a glance towards his brother, Myron, "things must be kind of rough for you out there."

"Me and everyone it seems," said Carl as he shoveled it in. "They're moving all the jobs to Taiwan. Can't even find an empty cardboard box most times 'cause somebody's living in it."

"Come the Revolution a little sooner than we thought," Dad said looking across at his brother.

"Or something worse," Myron said with a slight frown.

"Can you pull a rabbit out of your hat?" Carl asked Myron.

"Well, no," Myron admitted looking surprised.

"You look like a guy I saw on TV once. Pulled a rabbit out of his hat and sawed a woman in half."

"Oh, he's a lady-killer, all right," Ma laughed. "But not in that sense."

"Myron's a magician all right," Dad smiled. "Especially at breeding cannabis."

"Cause you look just like that guy on TV," Carl said as he continued eating. He stopped. "Hey, what's on TV anyway? I haven't watched the Tube in a coon's age."

"I don't know," Jimi admitted. "I never saw a TV myself."

"And you haven't missed a thing," Ma added.

"Yeah, well sometimes I'd like to see for myself," Jimi said angrily pushing himself away from the table. He stalked out of the room.

"Woah, bad vibes," Myron commented as Mom and Dad looked at each other.

"What are we going to do with him?" Ma asked.

"I don't know," Dad said shaking his head helplessly. "Myron, pass the pipe."

"Hey, Carl?" Jimi leaned over from his bed from across the darkened room. "You awake?"

"No," Carl mumbled from a jumble of featherbedding and quilts.

"What's it like out there?" Jimi asked.

"Well, it's night so I guess it's dark."

"No, I mean out in the world."

"Boring pretty much except for that darned deer. Sylvia's always wanting me to work in the pumpkin patch, but that's squaw's work. 'Course I don't dare tell her that."

"Wouldn't be a good idea to say that here either."

"Wouldn't?"

"Nope, unless you want some female lighting into you, and let me tell you, we got some tough ones."

"Probably a lot like Sylvia," Carl conceded.

"Probably. Anyways, have you ever been to a big city?"

"Sure. We were in Chicago."

"Was it interesting?"

"Oh, I suppose," Carl said thinking back over all the things that had happened since he'd left home. "But your Mom's a pretty good cook."

"There's more to life than eating," Jimi said staring up at the ceiling.

"If you say so," Carl replied drifting off into dreamland. Jimi let him sleep.

"Time to eat," Jimi announced flinging the covers off Carl. Carl made a dash for the door.

"Ain't you gonna put on your pants?" Jimi reminded him.

"I guess I better," Carl said sheepishly looking down at his dangling little dingle.

"You're welcome to some of these," Jimi offered tossing Carl some of his older clothes that he'd outgrown years ago. Carl pulled on a big loose-fitting shirt with raglan sleeves. "Wow, I look like a pirate."

"So you ever seen the ocean?" Jimi asked.

"No, I don't think so," Carl reflected. "But we did see that big lake in Chicago. Why, it's so big, you can't see anything but water for miles and miles."

"I'd like to see the ocean sometime," Jimi nodded with a traveling look in his eye.

'You and me could be Indian pirates," Carl enthused. "Think of the scalps we'd take."

"Breakfast!" Ma called.

"You cooked the deer?" Jimi said in surprise as he sat down to the big hand hewn wooden table.

"You killed it, you eat it," Ma said wrinkling her nose as she set down a big plate of venison steaks.

"He don't have to eat it," Carl said spearing a big juicy slab of meat. "I will."

"You know, Ma," Jimi announced with his mouth full of chewy meat, "it's not like I wanted to kill the thing. It was attacking Carl."

"You couldn't have captured it, tied it up or something?" Ma wondered. Carl just laughed kind of hysterical.

"So what are you doing?" Carl asked having followed Jimi to the barn.

"Shoveling cow shit," Jimi scowled.

"Wow," Carl reflected. "I never shoveled cow shit before."

"Now's your big chance."

"I don't know," Carl said pondering on the matter. "Sounds like farmer's work to me, and I'm an Indian."

"Indians around here used to farm," Jimi informed him.

"Come on," Carl said with disbelief. Old Man Braible had told Carl the same thing but there are those who will not hear.

"Sure did. These woods Indians had cleared fields by the river. Grew pumpkins and corn."

"Pumpkins?" Carl said aghast.

"Sure, those Indians farmed to beat the band. That's why the white folks drove them out. They wanted the Indian farms."

"But what about buffalo?" Carl had to know.

"Different Indians," Jimi said handing him a shovel. "Let's get to work."

Once the shit was shoveled, Jimi decided to take a swim.

"What's all that yelling?" Carl asked as they drew closer to grove of tall cottonwoods. There was the sound of laughter and splashing.

"Heck, must be some of the girls," Jimi said parting some bushes.

"Girls?" Carl asked in some concern. They entered a small clearing on the banks of a broad pond. One young woman, blond and bare-ass naked was just diving from a platform built in the branches of an overhanging tree. Another, standing waist deep in the water, was clearly naked, her bosom only partially covered by her streaming dark hair.

"Hey, Jimi," the brunette shouted, "who's your friend?!"

"This here's Carl. Come on, buddy, shuck those clothes. Let's take us a swim.

"Ick, you've been shoveling cow shit. I can smell you from here," she complained.

"Little cow shit never hurt anyone," said Jimi. Throwing off his clothes, he dove in.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Joan, the brunette asked as Carl sort of waited on shore.

"Are you talking to me?" Carl squeaked.

"Uh, huh," Rose, her sister smiled. "We want to see what you look like."

"Uh...." Carl stammered turning completely red.

"Leave him alone," Jimi insisted taking long slow strokes across the pond. "He's not your new toy."

"You just mind your own business, Mr. Jimi Junior," said Joan coming out of the water all dripping and quite naked. "You need some help with your clothes?" she asked Carl.

"Uh, I don't know if maybe Sylvia would like that," said Carl looking away.

"Who's Sylvia?" Rose snapped.

"My wife."

"He's married," Rose said with disappointment turning her naked back on him. She and Joan swam off.

"Hey, that got rid of them pretty good," Jimi said swimming up. "I wish I could say that."

'You will. One of these days," Rose called back to him.

"You can bet your boots," Joan added.

"Darned women," Jimi grumbled in a low voice dragging himself on shore.

"Anyway," called Joan, "we don't care if you're married. We want to see what a man looks like around here."

"What are they talking about?" Carl asked. "Can't they see me now? I'm standing right here."

"You better do what they want, buddy," Jimi said looking resigned. "Otherwise, they'll pester you to death."

"So get those clothes off," Rose ordered advancing from the water ominously, the water lapping at her crotch, "or we'll take them off ourselves."

"Yes, ma'am," Carl squealed shucking off his clothes as quick as he could.He hit the water with a big splash.

"Boy, I didn't see much of anything," Rose admitted.

"Me neither," agreed her sister. They both swam in Carl's direction where he was executing an awkward dog paddle that would embarrass most dogs.

"Help!" Carl sputtered as Rose grabbed him around the chest.

"Oh, you just relax. Is that the best you can swim?" Rose asked.

"Hey, you let that go!" Carl squawked at Joan who had grabbed one of his other appendages.

"Well, what do you think?" Rose asked her.

"It doesn't seem as small as Jimi's uncle. Maybe just a little bigger.

"Yeah?" Rose's eyes widened. "Myron's thing is pretty small. Here, you take him."

"Ladies," Carl gasped as one strong arm was switched with another. "My wife's gonna be awful mad."

"Oh, relax," Joan told him, "we're just curious." Rose popped up for air. "So what'd you think?"

"He got himself a cute little erection, but it is pretty dinky."

"Well, what'd you expect?" Carl huffed, "the way you're touching me like that?"

"Oh, you men," Joan said disgusted letting him free. Carl sputtered and sank.

"He doesn't seem to be too good at swimming," Rose remarked as Carl bubbled, burbled, and gasped for help going under a second time.

"Well, I'm torqued. They're always thinking we want to have sex with them. It's only in the interests of science."

"What do you think?" Rose asked, "does our theory predict?"

"Small weenie, low ranking on the status scale? Maybe," considered her sister, "but how do we account for Myron?"

"I don't know, drug use, strategies of overcompensation?"

"Hey!" Jimi yelled from the bank. "Can't you see my friend's drowning?"

"Oh for god's sakes," said Rose her pink bottom flashing as she dove. She found Carl thrashing underwater in the weeds.

"You okay?" Joan was grinning as Carl feebly opened his eyes. They had just given him mouth to mouth resuscitation.

"What happened?" he croaked weakly.

"What's the idea of going swimming when you can't swim?" Rose demanded.

"You made me."

"You should have said something," replied Joan. Carl couldn't help but notice her breasts hanging over him, nipples practically in his eyes.

"And he's still got that cute little boner," giggled Rose giving his erect penis a little flick. "Is your wife built small?"

"Huh?" asked Carl.

"Hey, let the poor guy alone, will you?" Jimi said dragging Carl away from the girls.

"Do you have kids?" Joan wanted to know. "Were you able to get her pregnant?"

"We've noticed a downward trend in the male fertility rate in the public health statistics. Less occurrences of sex, and a fewer kids. Does that predict in your case?" Rose asked.

"Ignore them," Jimi advised.

"Now you wait just a minute," Rose said determinedly dragging Carl back. "We're conducting scientific research."

"Research? You're just nosy."

"Nosy?" Rose responded with a laugh. "Just because you're not in the top ten percent of penis length."

"It never seemed to bother you," Jimi smirked.

"And just what does that mean?" Joan demanded turning on her sister.

"As if you didn't know," Rose returned hotly.

"I don't know what on earth you're talking about," Joan blushed from her face to her breasts.

"The heck you don't," Jimi blurted and immediately wished he hadn't. Both young women, angry and embarrassed suddenly advanced on him.

"We'll teach you to laugh at us," Joan said darkly.

"We'll pull your's off," threatened Rose.

"You two leave me be," Jimi blanched. Stepping backwards, he tripped and flipped backwards into the pond.

"Get him!" yelled Rose diving after him. Joan remained on the bank.

"Is she really going to yank off his wiener?" Carl asked watching the two chase each other around the pond.

"Oh who cares," Joan said turning on her heel and facing him. "You know what the problem with this place is?"

"Unh, unh," Carl said.

"Not enough men. I mean, there's men, but most of them are married, or just, well, weird, or boring, or something."

"That's too bad," Carl commiserated.

"I know," Joan said with a sad smile taking a step forward. "So where's your wife?"

"Oh, she's back there somewheres," Carl said with a vague gesture.

"What's she doing?"

"Raising pumpkins."

"When are you going home?"

"I can't," Carl said, "she's real mad at me." Joan took a step closer. Carl felt panicky, he looked to the pond for his friend.

"Oh my gosh!" he gasped running for the bank. "They've drowned."

"Somehow I don't think so," Joan responded ironically now standing so close behind Carl that they touched several places. "So why's your wife mad?"

"Because I couldn't kill this deer. Heck, I tried, I can kill dogs, cats, rats, squirrels, but I couldn't touch that dad-blasted deer. Jimi got him," he added with admiration. "He's a better Indian than I could ever be. Sylvia's better off without a loser like me."

"That's too bad," Joan said gently biting him on the neck. Carl was so surprised he fell in the pond. Joan jumped in to help him out.

"So how was your sex life?" she asked yanking the sputtering Carl to his feet.

"Sex?" Carl asked pale as death.

"How often did Sylvia and you have sex?" Joan wanted to know shaping her lips into a lusty pout. "So was it four, five times a week?"

"Oh, no," Carl insisted, "never that much."

"How much then?" she insisted growing slightly more exploratory with her hands.

"Uh....,"Carl whisper almost dead with the shock, "you mean like kiss?"

"Kissing's part of it, sure," smiled Joan getting so close that Carl was practically underwater.

"I think we kissed at our wedding once."

"Once?" Joan drew back letting him go.

"Is that bad?" Carl sputtered coming up for air.

"You kissed your wife once? And how many times did you make love?"

"Make love?" Carl whispered almost dead from the shock. "You mean like being nice to each other?"

"No, I mean sex. You know. Like my sister's doing with Jimi?" Joan's hand tightened threateningly on his shoulder.

"Uh, to tell you the truth," Carl stammered, his heart hammering with fear, "I'm not really—could you sort of explain what you mean?"

"Sex, you know? A man, woman, naked, intercourse?"

"Syl and I never done anything naked. Except maybe take a shower, but not together or anything."

"So you had sex with your clothes on?" Joan said smiling slightly. "That could be interesting."

"I still don't understand what you mean," Carl said and he really didn't.

"Oh for god's sake," Joan said exasperated dragging him out of the pond. She led him around the edge and then motioned for absolute silence.

"What are we doing?" Carl asked.

"Since we seem to be having a little problem with our communication, I'm going to show you a real life demonstration," Joan whispered parting some branches. Sure enough, there was Rose and Jimi humping away hotly on a spot of grass under a giant cottonwood tree. Carl stared transfixed until Joan pulled him away.

"Now you understand?" she asked seductively.

"I guess. No, Sylvia and I ain't never done that. Not never."

Joan suddenly lost her seductive expression. She looked madder than Sylvia ever did. Carl tried to run for it, but she tripped him and cocked back her fist.

"Are you saying that sister of mine is getting some with Jimi and I'm stuck with you?"

"Help!" Carl yelped climbing the nearest tree. Joan looked like she was considering coming after him, but then she stalked off muttering angrily about weirdos.

"Whew," he breathed in relief once Joan had left, "women are just about as dangerous as killer deer." He got himself more comfortable. It looked like a long wait as Joan had only gone back to the pond for a little more of a swim. He'd just wait here until Jimi was done with his sex and everything. Speaking of Jimi, Carl took a peek. Actually it was quite a bit more than a peek. From this height, he could see everything including backwards, forwards, and upside down. If Carl had known a little about the Kama Sutra, he'd have realized he was seeing an excellent demonstration of some of the more exuberant positions. Finally, Rose threw herself back in the grassy spot looking content and satisfied. Once her eyes closed, however, Jimi, looking a little beat, tried to drag himself away. Carl was just shimmying down the tree when he heard Joan coming.

"Oh, darn," he said shimmying back up the trunk quick as he could.

"Where's Rose?" she asked Jimi.

"Uh, sleeping," Jimi said sheepishly trying to get around her.

"Well, I'm not sleepy in the least," she said with a lascivious look in her eyes taking him by the private parts.

"Come on, Joan," Jimi practically whined, "Rose done wore me out."

"That's not what my little friend is telling me, look he's getting all big and pink."

"That's not pink, that's red because your little friend is sore," Jimi protested trying to draw away. Carl, right overhead, tried real hard not to breathe. Looked like he was gonna see some of that sex again. This was better than motorcycle magazines.

"Don't give me that, Jimi," Joan hissed. "I thought you were setting me up with another eligible male. He hasn't even consummated his marriage yet."

"Really?" Jimi said surprised. "It's not like the woman's unattractive. Just average, I suppose."

"And how would you know?"

"I was watching them all from the trees. She's farming pumpkins at the old Braible place.

"I'm sure it's nothing to do with her."

"How do you know?" he asked. "Maybe she's just too darned demanding like somebody else I know."

"Demanding?" Joan said with an ironic laugh. "He said she was mad at him; probably because she never gets laid. Well, let me tell you something Jimi, she's not the only woman who gets real difficult when she's not getting enough; so I'm warning you, put out."

"Oh for cripes sakes," Jimi said pinning Joan to the tree. The two of them shook the trunk in a fairly rhythmic fashion until they tumbled to the ground in a squirming heap. Jimi had said he was tired but it didn't look that way to Carl the way they kept going at it the better part of the next hour. Suddenly, Jimi pulled free and made a run for it. Joan snatched for his ankle.

"I'm not done with you!"

"Help!" Jimi yelled kicking himself free. He limped off down the trail. Joan lay there giggling.

"What's all that noise?" Rose asked appearing through the leaves.

"Oh, Jimi."

"Don't tell me, you nailed him too?"

"Well, what does he expect? He's the only eligible boy around here, and a woman's got appetites."

"Do you think we could clone him?"

"We could try. What do we need, one of his liver cells?

"Do you think he'd sit still for it?"

"No," smiled Joan, "he'd start screaming or something we were hurting him."

"Men," shrugged Rose as they walked back to the edge of the pond to retrieve their clothes. As he watched their bare butts jiggling as they sauntered along the path, Carl was thinking maybe he and Sylvia ought to try this sex thing, even if it did look scary. Waiting quietly until he was sure they were gone, he shimmied back down to earth.

"You okay?" he whispered finding his friend curled up in a tight knot under a fallen tree.

"Shh," Jimi shushed him looking scared.

"Don't worry, they're gone," Carl assured him.

"You positive?" Jimi said getting up cautiously and touching himself. "Good, it's still there. Those darned girls just about wore it off." He pulled on his pants. "Come on, let's go see my Uncle Myron. Maybe we'll smoke some weed."

"Why would you want to smoke a weed?" Carl asked.

Although they had a close call or two with some girls again, Jimi and Carl managed to sneak back around the ridge.

"Boy, it's hot," Carl sweated.

"Myron will have something to drink," Jimi said stopping to turn to Carl. "Now I got to warn you about..."

"What?" said Carl taking another step. Suddenly, something gripped his ankle and he was flying high in the air.

"That," said Jimi looking upside down as Carl stared dangling like a caught fish. "Unc's a little paranoid. He's worried about the Feds."

"That was fun," Carl insisted once Jimi pulled him down.

"Maybe so," Jimi warned, "but most of Unc's traps are kind of dangerous. You let me go first."

"How dangerous?" Carl asked.

"My favorite's the snake pit. You fall in there and all these copperheads bite the everloving heck out of you."

"Then what?" Carl asked.

"Why, you die. Some undercover cop was sneaking around here once. You should have heard him scream. Uncle Myron had it all filmed and sent it to Washington DC. We haven't seen any of those boys in a long time." He reset his Uncle's trap and walked on. Carl started getting hungry thinking about those copperheads. He'd heard snakes were good to eat.

"What's that?" Jimi asked cocking an ear.

"Just my stomach growling."

"You ate more breakfast than I eat in three days," Jimi said incredulously.

"Us Indians got to stock up for the lean times. Why, Syl and I sometimes went without eating for three days."

"We'll get something to eat at Unc's," Jimi promised pushing on. They came to a small footbridge over a creek roaring out of a ravine. Jimi stopped. "You see that," he said, "watch." Carl watched as Jimi took a hunk of tree branch and dropped it on the planks of the bridge. The whole thing gave right away. The branch fell into a raging current which swept it downstream.

"Wow," admired Carl, "what a ride that would be at Dizzy Land."

"You're probably wondering how we're gonna get across," Jimi added. "Well, we aren't, whole thing's just a ruse. The real trail's over here." They stepped around a huge, overhanging rock. Sure, enough, the trail wound up and along the side of the ravine churning savagely with white water.

"Any fish in there?" Carl wondered.

"Nothing," said Jimi coming to a stop at the bottom of a huge oak. "Well, here we are."

"So where's his house?" Carl wondered looking around.

"Up that way," Jimi said raising eyes. Putting two fingers to his mouth, he sharply whistled. They waited, nothing happened.

"Maybe he's not home," Carl offered feeling kind of funny waiting under a big tree. So where was the front door?

"He's home," Jimi said looking satisfied. "Stand clear," he warned just as a rope ladder fell from out of the leaves. "Uncle Myron?" Jimi called out as he started to climb.

"Wow," Carl repeated climbing up after him. He stepped out onto a wooden platform surrounded by leaves. "This is neat."

"Uncle Myron?" Jimi asked. No one answered. "He must be upstairs." They went carefully up the stairs to the next platform.

"Myron?" Jimi asked softly. There was a squeaking sound from above.

"Where is he?" Carl whispered.

"Oh, who knows? I just hope he's not tripping today," Jimi said softly motioning that Carl should follow him up a second set of stairs to the right. They paused again at the top of the stairs. A woman wearing leotards was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the dark room, which in itself wasn't so odd, but she was suspended about three feet in mid air.

"What's she sitting on?" Carl asked.

"Behold!" intoned an invisible male voice suddenly, "the mysteries of the universe." Startled, Jimi grabbed for his knife

"Relax, nephew," Myron chuckled darkly stepping from the shadows, "I'm just helping Tulsa with her act." Tulsa opened her eyes and stood.

"So what the heck were you sitting on?" Carl asked.

"What do you think, Myron?" Tulsa smiled checking the floor. "Will it fool them?"

"It fooled this young fellow," Myron smiled mysteriously pointing to Carl, "but he looks pretty gullible."

"Huh?" asked Carl turning to his friend.

"Don't mind him, he's just talking fancy-pants," Jimi said. Tulsa smiled mysteriously. She was a tall woman with a thin nose. She smelled vaguely of tobacco, spices, and a variety of other exotic organic intoxicants.

"What's this?" she said to Carl reaching for his ear. "Look," she smiled opening her palm, "I found a candy."

"I got candy in my ears?" said Carl excitedly sticking both fingers in his ears.

"Let's see your palm," Tulsa ordered. Carl reluctantly extricated his fingers.

"What are you doing?" he asked. The way she was dragging her long nail across his skin gave him the tickles.

"Reading your future. I see you will bring me a tofu sandwich and a glass of soy milk.

"I will?" Carl asked.

"The Fates ordain it," she smiled mysteriously. "Kitchen's just down the stairs to your left. Take it easy on the mustard, please."

"Gee," said Carl heading for the stairs still searching his ears with his fingers. "I wonder where she found that candy?"

"Heh, heh," Myron chuckled darkly throwing himself in a low slung hammock. He picked up a magazine.

"So," asked Jimi taking a seat on the invisible stool, "how long you staying, Tulsa?"

"Oh, not too long," Tulsa returned after a long, significant look at Myron. "Your Uncle's been helping me with my act, but he is difficult to take over time."

"If you'd just do what I say," Myron grunted flipping a page.

"That and he seems to have lost interest in women," Tulsa added with a sultry flip of her head.

"Hey, you don't put out when you're not in the mood, why should I?" Myron retorted not looking up.

"It didn't even bother him when I mentioned my new male apprentice," Tulsa said with a wink at Jimi. "Speaking of which," she said with an appraising look, "you're looking pretty good these days, young man."

"To you and a couple other young women, I understand," Myron observed with a dry snort.

"Can't say I blame them considering the general quality of the men around here," Tulsa added.

"And their voracious women."

"Speaking of which," Tulsa said with a significant look in Jimi's direction. "I was approached, separately, by two young women who seem to be concerned that their attentions are having a deleterious effect on a certain young man who seems to lack the, shall we say, vigor, he once had. They were interested in aphrodisiacs, potions, drugs, etc. Being of a scientific frame of mind, they want to conduct certain...experiments."

"You're kidding?" Jimi said looking pale. "What the hell do those two want from me?"

"I think what they want is for a certain young man to make a choice. They seem to have realized that most men are only good for one woman at a time."

"Well, what if I don't want to make a choice right now?" Jimi said hotly.

"Then I suggest you head for the hills," Myron observed sardonically.

"And even that won't save all of you," Tulsa stretched putting her hand on Myron's leg. Carl entered with Tulsa's sandwich; still digging away at his ear.

"Are you still looking for candy, poor thing?" Tulsa said pursing her lips sympathetically. Taking the plate, she reached behind his ear once more producing a sweet.

"How did you do that?" Carl asked appropriately impressed.

"Only women can know the inner mysteries of the candy ear," she breathed mysteriously, "so be nice to them. Hmm, this certainly is an interesting sandwich."

"You don't like mice?" Carl asked genuinely surprised. "I found a whole batch of them behind the stove."

"Hmph," she announced with a flourish as she disappeared in a flash of light. "Men," said her invisible voice. "You almost have to do everything yourself."

"Wow!" said Carl looking around the room everywhere. "How does she do that?"

"Skill and spite," Myron replied. "It's not that hard really. I used the same technique myself once when under indictment at the Fifth Federal Court of Appeals."

"She's not mad at me, is she?" Carl wanted to know somewhat worried.

"No, she's simply a vegetarian."

"What's that mean?" Carl asked Jimi.

"She doesn't eat mice or cows."

"That's too bad. Anybody else want to eat this?" Carl asked regarding his sandwich hungrily

"Help yourself," Myron said rolling over his eyes glinting with interest as Carl ate. "So how does that taste?"

"Mm, mm..," Carl responded enthusiastically, a little mouse tail hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Let me have a bite," Myron asked sitting up.

"You're gonna eat a mouse?" Jimi said his expression reflecting distaste.

"I always try everything at least once. Hell, once I even voted for Richard Nixon to see how weird it would feel." He took a small bite of the sandwich. "Hmm, not bad."

"You want one?" Carl offered Jimi. "There's plenty more."

There was an angry curse from downstairs. "Would someone please remove this pot of parboiled mice from the stove?" Tulsa called.

"Make us a couple more sandwiches, will you Tulsa darling? We're going to eat them now," Myron yelled back with a devilish glint.

"Make your own damned lunch."

"With pleasure," grinned Myron heading down the stairs.

"Might as well see the show," Jimi said following.

"She gonna do more magic tricks?" Carl asked.

"That, or they'll just kill each other."

"Ow!" Myron cried ducking under the table as Tulsa made interesting gestures in the air with a wand.

"I'll teach you to swallow a mouse in front of me, you prick."

"Hey," protested Myron, "it was completely organic. Ow!"

"What's she doing to him?" Carl asked unable to see anything."

"It's only a post-hypnotic suggestion," said Myron scurrying around a cupboard—"Ow! But it still hurts like hell. Okay, Tulsa, knock it off."

"Fry me two eggs and I'll think about it," she said with a threatening move.

"Eggs? You're going to eat baby chickens?"

"You know I'm not a complete vegetarian."

"Ow! okay, okay, jeez, a guy can't even eat a damned mouse around here. Anybody else want eggs?"

"I'll take some," Carl said taking a seat at the carved wooden table.

"What about you?" Myron asked his nephew.

"I'll take an apple," said Jimi grabbing one from a bowl on the table.

"No, not that one," said Tulsa snatching the bowl away.

"Why, is that the one you treated for Snow White?" Myron asked.

"Actually, it's an experiment."

"On who?" Myron demanded.

"Who do you think?"

"Like a mouse?" Myron said offering Carl a parboiled mouse on a fork.

"You're pushing it, Myron," Tulsa warned.

"You see, that's why our sex life has gone to hell," Myron said. "Every time you don't get multiple orgasms repeatedly, you punish me."

"Why Myron, you said you liked the whips and chains. Or was that only on me?"

"Sheer libel, boys, don't listen to her."

"What would you do with whips and chains?" Carl wanted to know.

"Trying to enjoy ourselves," Tulsa said.

"Don't listen to them," advised Jimi. "They're just talking."

"Unfortunately, he's right," said Tulsa sounding depressed. "Oh, Myron, what's happening to us?"

"Nothing's happened, I feel fine."

"We've gotten old, boring. Remember the old days?"

"Certainly, that's why I'm still on the run."

"You haven't run in years. Look, you've gotten a belly."

"I'm older, give me a break."

"I've gotten gray."

"Where?" he asked, "Oh, don't tell me you've started dyeing your hair."

"I'm in show business, darling. One has to."

"But that's so goddamned...." Myron sputtered and flung up his hands helplessly.

"Oh, come on, Myron. I'm not the only one of your girlfriends who dyes her hair."

"What do you mean, girlfriends?" Myron protested self-righteously.

"You know exactly what I mean," said Tulsa who knew perfectly well she was only one of several female visitors to Myron's tree boy mansion throughout the year.

"Ah come on Tulsa," Myron said sounding entirely unconvincing

"It's all right," Tulsa smiled malevolently. "We all get together every now and then to discuss your peculiar eccentricities."

"Impossible," Myron spouted his paranoia chain jerked, "half those women live in Europe, and one's from Tibet."

"Yes it has been inconvenient. Fortunately, now we can keep instantaneous tabs on you through the Internet."

"Goddamn modern technology enslaves us all," Myron fumed as he handed Tulsa her eggs. "I'm going outside for a smoke."

Jimi and Carl joined Myron as he leaned over the balcony gazing at the hazy rolling hills.

"Want a toke?" he asked offering Jimi a joint.

"Nah," Jimi shook his head.

"What's that?" Carl asked.

"Try some," Myron offered. "It's my latest crop."

"Uh, Unc..," Jimi tried to intervene.

"Sure," said Carl taking too deep a hit off the joint. He started to cough.

"That's probably enough," said Jimi taking the joint back. "He's not used to that stuff."

"Ah, he'll be fine," Myron said. They stood there gazing at the view. After a couple of minutes, Carl started to hum. "Yeah," Myron said, "Life out there means conformity, boredom, doing what you're told," Myron continued. "We don't live like that here."

"I get bored plenty sometimes," Jimi admitted.

"There's good boredom and then there's bad," opined his Uncle. "You're young, you want to get out and see the world. That would be natural anytime, anyplace. We're talking about the kind of boredom you get from working at a mind-numbing, poorly paid job doing the same thing day after day every day of your life."

"I wouldn't mind doing the same thing day after day as long as I could get paid," Carl grinned.

"Even if it was boring?" Myron asked regarding him with piercing eyes. "Hmm," he said after taking a long uncomfortable look at Carl, "maybe you would." He nodded to Jimi. "I think our friend here is a perfect example of the ideal urban proletarian. You like working on cars, don't you Carl?"

"It's my favorite thing in the world," Carl said his eyes shining even though his head felt like was going to float him right off over the trees like a big balloon. He held tight to the railing for safety and started giggling.

"So you would like a long boring monotonous job, eh, Carl?" Myron asked.

"Well, I don't know about the monotonous part but I was supposed to start working at the factory once I'd graduated from high school. Of course, it was just a formality, me graduating and all. I sort of got straight F's, but the company kept telling us to go to school because they'd be looking real careful at our attendance records."

"So what happened to this factory?" Myron asked. "Did they close it and move to Taiwan?"

"Doggone," said Carl face registering amazement, "I knew you was a magician. How'd you read my mind?"

"It's happened all over," Myron said. "Europe, the United States, even Japan. They're moving the factories overseas where they can pay a nickel an hour."

"A nickel an hour?" Carl asked with surprise. "How can you make a living making a nickel an hour? I wouldn't work for anything less than fifty cents."

"You could make a living at fifty cents an hour?" Myron asked. "How would you pay your rent?"

"Well, I wouldn't," said Carl. "I'd just keep living on the street like we always do. But at least I could buy myself some Korny Kurls and motorcycle magazines."

"Well," said Myron, "the ruling class has certainly succeeded in lowering people's expectations since I was living in the mainstream."

"I guess I'd do it for a nickel an hour," Carl mused, "but it'd be tough."

"You know," Myron said considering his joint, "I think my yuppie lawyer friends on the Outside are going to like this stuff. You can smoke it, get a nice buzz and still feel straight enough to sue the pants off some jerk. Sure, sometimes you want to see the Buddha and all, but, hey, everybody's got to work." There was a sudden loud crack and the sound of something heavy whooshing through the leaves. Both Jimi and Myron looked around. "Hey, what happened to your friend?" Myron asked.

"Hey," Carl giggled hanging from a tree branch.

"So what's up?" Myron asked.

"I don't know," Carl said puzzled. "I thought I was gonna fly."

"I don't think this guy can handle pot," Myron said under his breath. Jimi nodded his head.

"Hold on," he called down. "We'll throw you a rope."

"What is going on out here?" Tulsa wanted to know coming out on the porch. "You're disturbing my digestion."

"Carl got high and tried to fly. Now we need a rope," Jimi said.

"Oh, you don't need a rope," Tulsa said looking over the edge. "Carl, listen carefully dear, you are now a monkey."

"I'm a what?" Carl giggling.

"Look at me, dear," she said in an interesting tone of voice, "look straight into my eyes, that's it, now relax—no, not that much, you'll fall—look into my eyes. Can you feel yourself growing a tail, are you covered in fur? Oh, yes, what a nice little monkey. Now come up here."

Carl looked at her, cocked his head, scratched himself quizzically, and idly swallowed a fly.

"Now come along, dear, Tulsa has a nice banana waiting for you. Myron?" she asked, "have you got a banana for our monkey friend?"

"Where am I supposed to get bananas out here?" Myron asked her.

"Wouldn't a rope be easier?" Jimi asked sounding peeved.

"Now, Jimi dear, don't be impatient, I've used this technique before. No, darling," she called down below. "Don't try to hang upside down from the tree branch by your tail. At least I think that's what he's trying to do," Tulsa added in a low voice. "He doesn't seem to be one of the smartest monkeys in the world.

"Why don't you try this mouse?" Myron said with a low chuckle as he offered her the pan.

"Oh for god's sake, Myron," she fumed.

"Better hurry," he advised. "He's starting to climb limb from limb. Come on, take a mouse and save a monkey's life." In fact it looked like the monkey, that is, Carl was preparing a spring to the next tree. The ground was quite a distance below.

"Monkey, honey!?" Tulsa called. "Wouldn't you like a nice mouse?"

Monkey sat upright on its hind legs and looked at her quizzically. He scratched himself and licked his arm.

"Mmm," said Tulsa holding one up with distaste, "nice little mouse for a very cute little monkey." Monkey cocked its head regarding her skeptically.

"Maybe Monkey wants to see you taste the mousie first?" Myron asked with a dastardly little grin.

"I will not."

"Do you want to be responsible for an innocent monkey, that is man, falling to his death due to your irresponsible hypnotizing?"

"Oh for god's sake," said Tulsa looking truly concerned. With some obvious hesitation she held the mouse to her lips. "Look Monkey, isn't this tasty?" Monkey didn't look so sure. He let out an enormously doubtful fart.

"Damn," cursed Tulsa. Clenching her eyes, she dropped the mousie down her throat. Now Monkey was convinced. With a great deal of excited chattering, he climbed quickly to the edge of the balcony and gobbled every parboiled mouse in the pan. "Monkey," Tulsa said taking monkey's face in her hands and looking deeply into his eyes. "You are now Carl, you will never be a monkey again."

"Interesting" said Myron after considering Carl philosophically, "I can't tell whether he went up the evolutionary ladder or down."

"Oh, don't be such a prick, Myron, even though it suits you perfectly."

"Me? I wasn't playing mind games with the poor unfortunate," Myron protested.

"I told you it was an experiment. Suppose someone had to be talked out of a burning building? I once hypnotized a potential suicide victim."

"What were the circumstances?"

"He was going to dump me," Tulsa responded straight faced. "I do the dumping in my relationships, nobody dumps me."

"Are you threatening me again?" Myron asked. "Can you believe this woman?" he asked turning to the young men. "She travels miles through difficult, dangerous country to my simple house only to institute a reign of terror. Then, after a couple of weeks of bullying, threats, and torture, she leaves."

"Tell me, Jimi, can any of his other lady visitors stand staying any longer?" Tulsa asked.

"Don't drag me into this," Jimi said pushing off from the balcony.

"Any more to eat?" Carl asked cocking his head quizzically. No one laughed.

"So now what're we gonna do?" Carl wanted to know as they climbed down the rope. Once Tulsa had started to sing some ancient North American Shoshone Indian chants in a high piercing voice, everyone had to retreat for the sake of their ears.

"I don't know," said Jimi hitting the ground with a thud. "It's all such a bore."

"You got any cars we could take apart?" Carl asked.

"People around here don't believe in cars."

"Then how do you drive around?"

"How could we drive, you see any roads?"

"Not yet," Carl said, "but there's roads everywheres else."

"Not here," replied Jimi. "If we want to go anywhere, we walk or ride a horse. It's totally nonpolluting and much healthier."

"Hmm," Carl said still wishing for a car to take apart. Still, the lack of cars had its points. One wasn't likely to hit you anytime soon.

They walked back down into the valley carefully avoiding Myron's various security measures. It was hot, and getting hotter as the great yellow sun bore down on them from above. Carl wouldn't have minded a bite more to eat maybe and then a nap.

"Shh," hissed Jimi suddenly.

"What's up?" Carl whispered.

"We're being watched."

"Yeah?" Carl asked his eyes widening. "Who's watching us?"

"I don't know yet," Jimi replied listening carefully and sniffing the breeze. A rock came suddenly flying through the leaves almost dinging his head. There was a female giggle.

"Rose?!" Jimi called out. "Joan?! Doggone it," he turned to Carl. "It's those darned girls."

"That's young women to you, mister!" Rose yelled out as she let fly with another rock. It bounced off a tree trunk above their heads."

"You cut it out!" Jimi cried out angry.

"Oh' don't be such a crybaby, Jimi," Rose said still unseen. "Joan and I have been talking about you. We decided we were wearing you out between the two of us."

"Boy, you hit that on the nail head!" Jimi retorted involuntarily rubbing himself. He was still feeling kind of chafed. "So does that mean I get a break?"

"Uh, huh," Rose replied. "We decided that one of us was going to get you all to herself."

"Well that's just great," Jimi replied sarcastically, "and do I get any say?"

"Here's the deal, Jimi-kins," Rose said sticking her head through the leaves, "you're the fish, and you're going with whoever hooks you first. Now, are you gonna come along peacefully, or do I have to get rough?"

"Where's Joan?" Jimi asked.

"Well," Rose smiled blushing just a bit, "I locked her in the shed. Still, she ought to be along soon. The point is, Jimi, you can let yourself get caught by whoever you choose. Now you know I'd treat you nicer than Joan."

"Yeah, and what's Joan gonna do to me if I pick you?"

"We decided to have a whole two weeks of open season. That way's each of us'd have a chance to get you back if the other pulled some sneaky trick. But I'd hide you pretty good."

"Uh, huh," Jimi said doubtfully backing away, "but, it just so happens I don't feel like getting caught by anyone."

"I knew you wouldn't do this the easy way, you stubborn man," Rose snapped her eyes flaring as she shouldered a rifle.

"Run!" Jimi yelled just as the gun popped off and a tranquilizer dart hit the tree trunk right above his head.

"There's no escaping me," Rose howled as Jimi loped off down the trail. Carl ran after him pushing past tree limbs, swallowing gnats, and tripping over rocks. There was a sudden drumming noise and something heavy crashing through the underbrush.

"Goldarnit," Jimi cursed stopping for a second to listen intently.

"Is that a tank?" Carl asked white-faced.

"She's on the horse. This way," Jimi ordered and they dived off the trail. Carl followed as best he could as Jimi ran like a big cat. Roots tore at them, branches hit at them, and a whole bunch of hornets started chasing Carl after he'd stomped their hive with his foot.

"Run," Carl screeched as they swarmed after him. Both sprinted quickly to the edge of the cliff overlooking the creek that ran by Myron's place. It looked even less inviting than earlier that day.

"Jump," Jimi bellowed as hornets swarmed and Rose came thundering up on a big Clydesdale.

"You're sure making this fun," Rose called out cheerfully. The two men jumped.

Carl didn't know quite what was happening to him as the water turned him over and over buffeting him about. Now and then he would get thrown to the surface gasping for air only to get sucked back down. Suddenly, he whomped right into something that was big, black, wet, and furry.

"Howdy there, Mr. Bear," Carl grinned at a large black bear that had been fishing. It growled quite annoyed. Luckily, the current swept Carl clean away rushing him right over a floating log. Snatching a branch, Carl held on.

"Hey, Buddy," Jimi grinned over the roar of the rushing water. He had snatched the same log. "Things are looking good so far."

"So what do we do now?!" Carl wanted to know as they approached a thundering waterfall.

"It's like this, Buddy," Jimi responded. "We survive the falls, we're free men."

"But..." Carl started to protest as the log started bucking around. A rope slapped the water beside Jimi's head.

"Jimi!' Joan cried out running along the bank. "Grab it."

"Oh, yeah, sure," Jimi sputtered. "Wouldn't that be easy for you."

"But you're going to get killed!" she cried in real fear.

"Then it'll be your fault, you and Rose," Jimi accused.

"You stubborn man," Joan cried throwing a lariat. It caught around a branch of their log. Quickly tying her end to a stump, the log was stopped.

"You're making this a lot harder than it has to be," she cried. "One of us is getting you."

"Swim for it," Jimi ordered pulling Carl off the floating tree.

"But I can't, blub, blub, blub, swim," Carl gurgled as Jimi towed him with one strong arm. With the other, Jimi grabbed a sweeper and hauled himself out dragging Carl after him.

"You come back here," Joan screamed over the roaring water.

"Man, that was close," Jimi gasped pulling Carl to his feet. "Come on, buddy."

"So where we gonna go?" the exhausted Carl groaned.

"Hi fellas," Rose said towering above them on the immense horse. "Are you ready to be nice?" She was looking down the sights of her tranquilizing rifle.

"Okay, Rose, you win," Jimi admitted raising his arms. "It was you I wanted most anyways. I was just playing hard to get."

"Is that so," Rose asked suspiciously, but she couldn't help shooting a triumphantly, gloating look at her sister standing helplessly on the other side of the creek. "You hear that, Joan? He's giving up to me."

"Is that so?" her sister laughed. "And who would he be?"

"Why, Jimi, of course," Rose replied looking down. Jimi had drug Carl between the giant horse's legs and dashed off. "Doggone you, Jimi, you're gonna pay for that," she snarled pulling the horse around. Joan laughed.

"Now what?" Carl whispered as they watched Rose gallop off away from their hidden perch in the tree.

"I've got to think." Jimi hissed in desperation as Carl rubbed his nose. "They know everything about this place. Where can I go? Hell, if I had known it was going to give me this much trouble, I'd have had my peter removed years ago."

"Who's Peter?" Carl wanted to know. Not too far away, Jimi could hear the girls searching both banks methodically. They were sure to come this way.

"Heck, who am I kidding?" Jimi said sounding hopeless. "I'm dead, I know it...I might as well give up." He stood up.

"Where we going?" Carl asked scurrying to catch up as Jimi strode off through the brush.

"I'm just going to walk down the main trail and keep on walking. One of them will find me soon enough."

Jimi reached the main trail with Carl running after. It was the central walkway of the entire community—big, broad, and smooth. He just walked. They walked the rest of the afternoon. All around them, there were scattered shouts and sounds of searching as Rose and Joan scoured every secret path and hole in the entire valley. Every resident could only stand back in shocked wonder as Rose and Joan trampled the countryside searching homes, ransacking barns, and trading insults that grew increasingly bitter while Jimi, followed by Carl, just kept walking down the main trail undiscovered and unseen.

Late that afternoon they walked out of the low hills. Jimi stopped so suddenly Carl walked right into him.

"I just realized something," Jimi smiled beatifically.

"What?" Carl asked.

"We're out of there. I'm free of those girls." He turned towards the valley triumphantly. Carl turned too. Free? From a nice place where the sun shined and there was plenty of food to eat? He started walking back.

"Hey, where you going?" Jimi grabbed him.

"Life's pretty good back there," Carl insisted making a break for it.

"Yeah, well, I'll be needing you to show me around," Jimi said tackling Carl and dragging him back. "Besides, those girls get you, they'll be getting me next."

"You're not gonna like it," Carl promised grabbing onto a tree branch.

"I don't care how comfortable it is, I just want something different," Jimi said tearing him free. "Now come on."

Gray clouds lay over the lowlands. It sprinkled some; then it rained. Cold and wet, they spent the night in a hollow tree. Jimi's first night of freedom from Paradise seemed awful grim.

That morning Jimi's nose twitched him awake. Carl was roasting a couple squirrels.

"That'll teach them to keep me up all night with their chattering" Carl said with satisfaction. Streaks of sun shone through shredded rain clouds. The day looked promising.

After Jimi ate, washed, and took a dump, he felt like a new man. Although he had wandered to the edge of the valley, he had never quite wandered this far. All he knew about the world outside, he knew from his school books and all Unc's scary stories about Capitalism and the Military-Industrial Complex.

"So what you want to do today?" Carl asked half hoping Jimi would want to return to his Mom's good cooking and that nice soft feather bed.

"Check things out," Jimi stretched raring to see the world. He ran, jogged, trotted, and walked towards the east because he had heard that's were most of the people were unless you walked far to the north or west. It was mid-morning when Jimi stopped so suddenly that Carl ran right into him.

"You see that?" he pointed in an excited whisper.

"I sure do," Carl gasped his face white with fear. Just over in the trees stood a feeding doe. "Let's run for it."

"Are you kidding?" Jimi scoffed. "That's our dinner."

"Yeah," breathed Carl, "but what if it gets you first?"

"That's no killer deer, Buddy," Jimi comforted his friend, "I can tell by the way it walks." Only the doe stopped walking and broke into a run. "She must have smelled us, come on!" Jimi yelled giving chase.

The doe led them back, forth, zigzagged, up, down. She ran fast, slow, sometimes walked, went backwards, and even side to side. Jimi chased the deer easily as Carl pursued doggedly from behind.

"You know," Jimi finally admitted, "maybe that doe is a killer deer. She's sure leading us around."

"Maybe we ought to leave her alone," Carl suggested panting like a dog.

"No way," Jimi said breaking back into another run. "Now I'm hungry and mad."

The doe, which had been feeding on some deep green meadow grass, slipped into a thicket. Carl watched Jimi follow and hesitated. He was feeling strange about this, in fact, downright chicken. Still, he followed.

"Wow," exclaimed Carl exiting the thicket after a few yards. Jimi was standing on the edge of a giant, bombed-out wasteland stretching hundreds of acres. "You see any junk cars?"

"Check out that sign," Jimi pointed to a faded white board painted with a skull and crossbones and a lot of hard-to-read big words.

"What's it say?" Carl asked not having been a prize reader in school.

"Military Ballistics Range," Jimi read. "Trespassers, if they survive, may be maimed for life."

"So is that good or bad?"

"Bad," said Jimi watching the doe as she picked its way across the field. "That deer's trying to get us to follow her into some real bad news."

"We gonna?" Carl asked.

"No," Jimi shook his head. "Uncle Myron told me all about this place. Used to be a coal mining town until the miners went on a strike. The national guard came in allied with the company police. Myron says they killed dozens of miners, their families, burned their homes, but just to make sure the papers wouldn't hear about it, the government turned the whole area into a firing range."

"A town, huh?" Carl said excitedly darting into the field. "Let's find us some junk cars!"

"Hey, you get back here," Jimi yelled. "That all happened before cars were invented even. You want to get blown up?"

"Come on, Jimi," Carl yelled paying no attention, "there's nothing more fun than pounding some car into a lump of tin."

Jimi could only stand there and shake his head as Carl raced deeper into the field. The doe turned around seemingly surprised. Most hunters wouldn't follow her this far. A few blasted beer cans, twisted rifles, and torn plaid hunting caps attested to that. She watched Carl curiously waiting for the human to make his last and fatal step.

"Doggone you," cursed Jimi feeling somehow responsible for Carl. Gingerly entering the clearing, he placed his feet into Carl's exact same tracks and followed.

"Whiskey-Delta Five, this is Control. Give us your position," the radio barked.

"This is Whiskey-Delta Five," drawled a bored young man with blond hair and a perfect Aryan freckled snub nose. He was cruising at about fifteen thousand feet in the cockpit of the 1.5 billion dollar F83, the Air Force's latest addition to its multi-faceted jet fighter fleet.

"How they hanging, Whiskey-Delta?" Control inquired in a bored voice.

"Bored shitless," Whiskey-Delta yawned scratching his one descended testicle. "Damn, I wish they'd start another war." He had just returned from a war last month; a short war. Wars were all short these days. It didn't take much to totally destroy a third or second world country these days even with conventional weapons let alone an F83.

"Don't worry, Whiskey-Delta," chortled Control, "there's a new one in the works."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, that's what you said last week."

"Now don't be grouchy, Whiskey-Delta", Control chided him. "Geez, you fly boys are all alike. Hell, they just got done fabricating the incident, now they've got to drum up some war fever in the press, stampede Congress, and then it's off to the slaughter. War's a complicated business."

"Sure takes them long enough," Whiskey-Delta grumbled. He would have been far more comfortable blowing the shit out of some goddamned rag head gook hole first and then make the lame excuses, but hey, this was America, and democracy and all that, and anyone who didn't like the fact could suck the end of his 45. He gazed out over the passing fields, farms, and houses thousands of feet below. It was times like this he yearned for a training accident, maybe an unplanned release of ordinance. Shit, he could take out a gas station, a school, or a day-care center full of welfare mothers, and who would know the difference? Whiskey's palms itched; just thinking of wreaking havoc got his gonads all stirred up.

"By the way," Control mentioned, "there's a 747 just off your nose."

"That so," yawned Whiskey-Delta just swerving from a mid-air collision as he watched the 747's pilot scream curses at him. Whiskey flipped him off.

"Anyways," drawled Control, "if you didn't wipe out the passengers and crew yet, you ought to be over Dead Valley in 3.6 minutes."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Whiskey-Delta said gazing at the rear end of the passenger jet as it flew off still in missile range. He could let loose with a heat-seeking missile right up its butt, but nah, he thought shaking his head, think of the goddamned paperwork, and would it really do that much for his career? Could be a plane load of corporate big shots for all he knew. Now if it were only some welfare mothers. He flipped open his Army issue comic book issue number 457 "GI Joe Does Afghanistan". As Whiskey-Delta studied the six color drawings of rapine and pillage, he wondered if the Air Force had been really the right choice for a guy like him with a distinct taste for spilling the red stuff. But a sudden chill went up Whiskey's spine when GI Joe got captured and the fanatical communist Muslim gook socialist homosexual terrorist bastards tortured the Yankee stalwart with the stub of a Bic pen and an especially warm blow dryer. Maybe it was better to be in the air. You could kill thousands, keep your hands clean, and be home just in time to give the wife a hard time about dinner.

Even with Jimi hooting and hollering for him to return, Carl single-mindedly searched for his junk car. Truth was, he was aching to do a little pounding; it had been a while.

"Oh, oh," Carl stopped. That deer was closer than expected and giving him a look. "You get away from me!" Carl yelled throwing a rock. It missed, bounced, and exploded. "Jeez," he said as the air cleared and a strong chemical smell burned the hairs of his nose. "Hey, you see that, Jimi? The ground explodes."

"Carl, you get back!" Jimi called out really afraid for his friend now.

"Look at this," Carl laughed letting fly with another rock. It hit the ground and went boom. "Hee, hee," Carl laughed launching another rock out towards the field. There was another explosion. "Hey, this is better than Dizzy Land." The last explosion was a little too close for comfort for the doe. She cried out with an angry bark and started pacing towards him.

"Hah, you don't scare me now," Carl laughed letting fly with another rock followed by an explosion. The deer, bruised and bleeding staggered off. "Hey, pitch yourself a rock, Jimi. It's fun." Jimi shrugged. What the heck. He threw a rock as far as he could too. A tremendous explosion shook the earth showering everything with dust and dirt. Eventually, Jimi could see Carl way out in the middle of the field sort of shaking his head back and forth.

"Carl?" Jimi yelled, but Carl couldn't seem to hear.

"Who turned off the sound?" Carl asked watching Jimi's mouth move.

"Come back here!" Jimi yelled waving his arms.

"Maybe he found some food," Carl said to himself feeling a tetch hungry. He walked back towards Jimi.

Whiskey-Delta Five was just appearing over the horizon when the alarm sounded "Warning, warning," chirped Computer. Whiskey-Delta sat up in his seat.

"What the hell..."

"Intruder, intruder."

"Where?" Whiskey-Delta asked fumbling clumsily with the console. His hands were still a little shaky from last night's Koors Keg party.

"Two humanoids in Sector 6-B."

"Shit, humanoids? In Sector 6-B? Computer, zone in with the satellite. Service personnel are restricted on bombing day. Identify service branch."

"No identifiable service insignia," Computer reported almost immediately.

"FBI, CIA?" Whiskey-Delta asked.

"Spectral analysis suggests otherwise."

"Civilian scientists on contract to DOD?"

"Not authorized for this time period."

"Is anyone from any branch of the government or armed services, or associated contractors authorized to be on the testing grounds at this time period?" Whiskey asked feeling a rising sense of excitement. Two unauthorizeds on the bombing range? Was this his lucky day or what?

"Negative," reported Computer.

"Maybe I'd better call this in," mused Whiskey-Delta switching on his headset. He'd hate to blow up a couple high muckety-muck civilians and risk fouling up a possible promotion. "This is Whiskey-Delta Five, come in."

"What's up Whiskey-Delta?" mumbled Control clearly interrupted from a nap.

"Yeah," replied the young pilot trying to sound bored. "I was just wondering, you know, before I drop my load, is there any authorized civilian activity in Sector 6-B?"

"That's a negative, Whiskey-Delta, why do you ask?"

"Oh, no special reason."

"Hey, boy, if you got yourself a couple of unidentifieds out there, we want to know about it."

"Hey, it was just a couple of stray pigeons," Whiskey sputtered angrily. "Get off my back."

"Hey," Control said in a low, menacing voice, "don't you screw around with me. If you got a couple of unidentifieds out there, this is worth money."

"What are you talking about?" Whiskey wanted to know.

"Hey, we got fly boys like you all over just itching to blow a couple unfriendlies to kingdom come. I can sell shares."

"Goddamnit," cursed Whiskey, "that's not fair. I spotted them, they're mine."

"You didn't spot shit, Computer did. Hell, you had your nose up a damned comic book as usual."

"Oops, I'm losing radio contact, over and out," grinned Whiskey shutting off his headset. "Computer?"

"Yes?"

"Are the targets armed?"

"Which targets are you referring to?"

"You know, the unidentified humanoids."

"The humanoids have not been targeted," Computer responded. "Repeat, they are not targets."

"Look," argued Whiskey-Delta, "if they're not authorized to be in Sector 6B then they're obviously terrorists, right?"

"Terrorists? There are no terrorist alerts in effect."

"Get with it, Computer, wasn't the President talking about Libyan homosexual socialist terrorists just last week?"

"One moment," the computer responded. "Thank you for your patience. The terrorist threat you referred to can be found in the minutes of the National Security Council meeting of May 3. Alleged threat is merely a propaganda exercise for domestic purposes."

"Propaganda!" Whiskey howled. "Why you commie son of a bitch, we got two Libyans right there, right now."

"They cannot be identified by spectral analysis as Libyans," intoned Computer.

"That's probably because they're paid commie liberal traitors just working for Libyans, you know, on commission or something."

"Let me get back to you on that," Computer responded in a somewhat skeptical tone.

"You do that, you Jap piece of shit," Whiskey muttered under his breath. Banking the jet into a steep dive, he cracked the speed of sound right over Carl.

"Wow," remarked Carl raising his head after the passing jet, "how'd you like to fix that?"

"Carl, look out," Jimi warned. The passing jet had scared the hell out of the killer deer and the quickest way out of the range was straight through Carl.

"Warning, warning," chirped Computer as Whiskey made a wide turn. "Humanoid now joined by animoid in Sector 6B."

"Must be his damned camel," Whiskey-Delta muttered arming his rockets. "Okay, buddy, let's go in for the kill."

"Specify ordinance requirements please," asked Computer.

"Yeah, I want mild explosives, three pounds of magnesium shrapnel, and no poison gas."

"Regulations require at least three liters of liquefied PS3," insisted Computer.

"Yeah, well that's just to knock them out if I miss. I won't miss."

"What color would you like the explosion?"

"Make it pink and green. With a little bit of yellow around the edges just for flair. And be sure to play the Wagner tape."

"Sound effects are not possible under this time constraint. The weapons are armed."

"Thank you Computer, now suck an egg," Whiskey-Delta chortled. He had Carl—now pursued by a frightened deer—right in his sights. "Fire," he ordered. The missile launched itself from the wing loosening several key wing rivets. It flew up in a high circle trailing multicolored smoke, raced around the perimeter of the valley and then honed in on the F83.

"Warning, warning, due to a misapplied firing command, the missile is now targeted on this jet."

"Shit," Whiskey croaked, a foul odor filling the cockpit. Propelled to the speed of light by fear, he quickly scanned his screen. There was a small commuter turboprop just 3 clicks to horizon. Stomping the engines into super-flame he blasted into a triple helix combined barrel roll flattening out ten yards to the port side of the turboprop. Inside excited passengers waved with friendly smiles while the pilot looked nervous.

"Hi folks," Whiskey grinned while waiting for the missile to catch him up. "Ah, there it is," he gritted his teeth not having sweated this much since the day of his first marriage. The missile swooped in like an avenging angel, closer, and closer. At the last possible second, Whiskey accelerated, dodged in front of the turboprop and blasted off.

"Missile has reached target," the computer blandly reported as the flaming fireball lit the sky.

"Whew," gasped Whiskey. "That was a shade too close."

"What the hell's going on out there!?" Control demanded finally able to override the cockpit's manual communications shut-off system.

"What do you mean, what's going on?" Whiskey asked trying his best to sound innocent.

"Radar just registered a big hit. Was that you?" Whiskey smiled. Control sure was stupid.

"Uh, no, not exactly. You see," and he wracked his brains quickly for a good lie, "you see, that, uh, you know, unidentified I was talking about, uh, well, I uh, went down for a look see, you know, and well, the little son of a bitch, well, he uh, fired off a surface to air missile."

"Bullshit!"

"No, it's the goddamned truth, really. Anyways, he fires off this missile and during, well, you know, after he fired..."

"Yeah, I know," said Control breaking in, "you shit your pants and ran like a scared rabbit at the first sign of danger."

"The hell I did," Whiskey blustered. "Still, the goddamned thing nailed a commuter plane."

"You're kidding?" Control gasped.

"Hey, look, I didn't pull that trigger."

"Jesus, we're in deep shit now. You dumb bastard, why didn't you just eject and let the missile eat your plane. A commuter plane? Probably full of executives and lawyers. You better fucking hope they're not a bunch of well-connected Republicans."

"Yeah, well there'd have to be a lot of lawsuits to equal the 1.2 billion bucks they spent on this plane, and anyways, who wants to eject over these woods? A guy could get bitten by a snake."

"So where is this so-called unidentified?" Control asked after a short pause.

"I can still see him on the screen."

"Well, nail his ass. We don't want any witnesses."

"I still say go with the terrorist angle," Whiskey insisted.

"Yeah, maybe," Control considered, "but you better get ready for some serious shit coming your way, Whiskey-Delta. They could suspend your beer privileges a couple of weeks."

"Man!" Whiskey slapped the side of his bullet proof cockpit in frustration. "They can't take away my Koors. That's fucking un-American. Computer, arm that missile."

"What are your specified ordinance parameters?"

"Same as before," Whiskey bellowed his face bright red. "Okay, unidentified commie faggot socialist liberal bastard, here's where you die." Banking the jet, he threw it into a steep screaming dive.

Jimi yelled as Carl pumped towards him pursued by the panicked deer. As the jet screamed in for the kill, a small swallow pursued a dragonfly. Screeching across the bird's path, the jet sucked the dragonfly into its engines. The dragonfly struck a blade in the turbo fan manufactured by a defense supplier who was supposed to have used a particularly expensive magno-chromium-titanium blend but instead had used recycled coke cans. The blade cracked throwing the engine off balance and the jet pitched forward cartwheeling across the field. Huge explosions occurred each time a wing tip hit the ground ending in great balls of fire. The killer doe sprang over Carl's head and went bounding off into the woods.

"Wow," Carl said watching the plane burn.

"You okay?" Jimi asked reaching Carl's side.

"I'm great. Let's check out that jet," Carl enthused bounding off. Jimi grabbed his arm.

"We're getting. This is a bad news place."

"But..."

"Run," Jimi ordered yanking him along. They ran.

Minutes later jets and attack copters filled the sky. Heavily armed paratroopers of the 82nd Airborne spilled out of circling planes drifting to the testing range like dandelion seeds. As they hit the field, most of them popped, popped, popped like drops of water hitting a hot griddle as they contacted unexploded ordinance. Of course, the situation wasn't helped by the machine gunners in the attack copters firing at everything that moved or didn't. The 82nd Airborne suffered hundreds of casualties as several planes collided with helicopters midair

.

"Man," Jimi said with wonder as they watched it all from a distant hill. "I wonder if my Uncle can see any of this."

"I bet he can hear it," Carl rejoined as the sound of explosions thundered across the sky like an awful battle between developmentally impaired gods.

After the mainframe computer records were examined and a confession tortured out of 'Control', pandemonium reigned in brass cages from Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska to the Pentagon. An entire squadron of armor plated black Lincoln Continental limousines descended on the White House.

"Are you telling me we just lost 7.8 billion dollars worth of equipment because some pilot spotted a hick in the woods?" the Secretary of Defense croaked.

"Make that two hicks," reported the Chair of the Joint Chiefs.

"Let alone three hundred confirmed dead paratroopers and god knows how many more missing," piped up a Navy admiral with extremely high cheekbones, narrow jaw, and deep empty looking eye sockets.

"Yeah, well we sure didn't need your goddamned cruise missiles launched," retorted the Sub-secretary of the Air Force.

"Sez you," cried Navy throwing a punch.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," sounded the Secretary of State pounding the hardwood table with his meaty hand. "We have a problem here. The President is going to want us to tell him what to do."

"I say we start another war," the Over-Secretary of the Army said gleefully.

"That's right," agreed the rest of the Joint Chiefs.

"We've got new hardware we're dying to try out."

"And the troops get cranky without a fight," asserted another.

"Damn right. Did you hear about that incident in South Dakota? A bunch of airmen got all liquored up and incinerated a whole town."

"I didn't read that in the newspapers."

"Of course you didn't, you fool," guffawed the Assistant Secretary for Media Cooperation.

"All right then. So it's agreed. We start another war?" asked the Secretary of State.

"Only there's a small problem," squeaked the Post-Secretary of the Treasury.

"And what is that?" the Secretary of State asked coldly. For emphasis, he expelled gas.

"There's no money," the Post-Secretary squeaked.

"No money?" the Secretary inquired acidly and looked around with a knowing smile. "So?" The room erupted with laughter.

"Sir," smiled the Post-Secretary ingratiatingly, "we do need money to start wars."

"Of course we need money," the Secretary hissed with the sort of contempt he always had for little men like the Post-Secretary who couldn't see the Big Picture. "But since when is that a problem? Take it out of some domestic program."

"Well, I would, sir," the Post-Secretary cringed. "But we've already drained Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid. Aid to Families with Dependent Children was totally looted last year."

"Oh come on, the Secretary smiled condescendingly. "Are you trying to tell me there isn't some massive giveaway program left that doesn't have a spare billion or two?"

"Uh, certainly, we have many such programs, but they're all, uh, corporate giveaway programs if you see what I mean."

Dead silence reigned around the room as one or two military and government bureaucrats cleared their throats nervously. Corporate giveaway programs were untouchable. Especially ones deemed essential to National Security including toy manufacturers and fast food chains.

"I see," returned the Secretary somewhat subdued. He turned to his Under-Under Secretary of International Solicitations. "Get the Saudis on the phone. Tell them to cough up three billion by next Tuesday or we let the Israelis off their leash for a week."

"Uh, sir, the Saudi Economy isn't doing so well this year," the Under Under-Secretary nervously cleared his throat. "And they were asked to contribute to the last four wars."

"Then call someone else!" snapped the Secretary who hated being bothered by details. "Do what you have to do, threaten to drop a bomb or something, but by God, we're starting a war. Besides, a little spat is good for the stock market and there isn't a man in the room who couldn't use a little extra cash."

"Hear, hear," agreed the rest of the room enthusiastically. The Secretary waited until the commotion had dropped down.

"So, we finance our little war, but against whom?" Various suggestions were called out including one for New York.

"Why New York?" the Secretary leaned over intrigued.

"Have you been there recently?" the Pre-secretary of the Marines sputtered. "Miles and miles of decrepit buildings, pollution, spics, slants, and, uh, African Americans," he nodded towards the Chair of the Joints Chiefs. "It's pure third world."

"Are you talking about Manhattan?" the Secretary asked his brows twitching spasmodically.

"No, no, not the fancy part. But Harlem, the Bronx, Brooklyn, hey, who needs it? My driver took a wrong turn on the freeway recently—scared the hell out of us."

"Hmm," said the Secretary giving the matter his consideration. An attack on the Bronx would simplify various logistical problems, and financial. After all, one of the biggest expenses of any war was simply getting the troops and bombs to the front. "And what would be our plausible excuse?"

"Plausible?" the Pre-Secretary asked his expression confused. "Why don't you fucking speak English?"

"Oh for Christ's sake," snapped the Secretary. "Am I the only one here with a college education?"

"Sir, most of us played sports in college," rejoined the Sub post secretary of the Navy.

"Yeah, and drank beer." The room erupted in cheers.

"Yes, yes, that's all well and good," the Secretary forced a smile. "We'll do that after the meeting. But first, I have to go explain things to the President. What excuse can we give to attack the Bronx?"

"What the hell do you need an excuse for?" asked a billionaire from Texas who in respect for all the billions he had inherited from his daddy was allowed to sit in on the meetings and tell people what to do. "You see, that's what's wrong with government today. You got to run it like a bidness just like my Daddy did. You don't sit around justifying yourself all day. You jes do it."

"Sir," the Secretary responded patiently, "the United States is not a private corporation--at least not yet. We have to take certain things into account. We couldn't just attack a heavily populated areas in one of the biggest cities of our own country. Think of the media problems alone."

"Son," lectured the billionaire, "you can do anything you want in this country given the proper ad campaign."

"Exactly," smiled the Secretary victoriously. "Marketing is the key. Let's brainstorm this: reasons for attacking the Bronx, reasons against."

"Looks like the third world," said the Pre-Secretary of the Marines raising his hand.

"Yeah," piped up the Under Under-Secretary of Treasury eager to show he was one of the boys. "and they're the perfect enemy."

"Why is that?" the Secretary condescendingly.

"They can't fight back," said the Under Under-Secretary eagerly. "I mean, isn't that in the profile? I've been keeping track of all our wars for the last decade, and they're all countries we can squash easily with practically no chance of retaliation."

Silence again reigned throughout the room. The Under Under-Secretary realized his gaffe. He picked up his portfolio.

"Uh, perhaps I should leave the room."

"Yes," smiled the Secretary like a python as he crooked his chubby finger at a guard. "Take this man into custody. He seems to need an attitude adjustment."

"But..." the Under Under Secretary started to protest the blood draining from his legs.

"Please," the Secretary shushed as guards dragged the man screaming from the room. Now then," he said graciously, "other reasons perhaps not stated so crudely?" No one replied, the previous demonstration having dampened the mood. "Yes then, I have a reason against. Gentlemen, I do own property in Manhattan. After all, I did teach there and continue to do so on occasion and still own a condominium, in fact, on Park Avenue. It's not a large dwelling, only seventeen rooms. Now where do you think my staff lives, the butler, the maid, my driver?"

"In your garage?"

"In the basement?"

"On the street?"

"No," the Secretary smiled "They live in the Bronx. Now consider all the other servants, the secretaries, the word processors, all the common, but necessary drones who keep our lives clean and convenient. See what I mean?"

"Can't say I do," drawled the billionaire.

"If we destroy the Bronx, even for the good of..." and he dropped his voice into a hallowed tone, "..National Security, would it be good for our constituents, would it be good for business, and most important, would it be convenient for me, that is, us, I mean?"

"Hmm," said the Chair of the Joint Chiefs.

"Hmm," echoed everyone in the room.

"Now I'm not saying it isn't a truly excellent idea for a variety of excellent reasons. In fact, I propose we set up a committee to study the matter of which cities, or which parts of cities would be acceptable war targets. But for now, I suggest we attack Libya."

"Again?" whined the Proto-Secretary of the Army who hated attacking Libya because it was mostly a job for the Air Force and Navy. "We attack them all the time."

"Now, we haven't attacked Libya in at least a year," admonished the Secretary. "In fact, studies show that people can be worked into an anti-Arab, anti-brown Muslim mood quite easily."

"But..." the Pre-Secretary of the Marines started to say.

"Attack Libya, attack Libya," the entire room chanted. The Secretary smiled modestly ducking his head in mock obeisance. "Fools," he muttered barely bothering to lower his voice. "I declare the meeting adjourned."

The day was pretty unexciting after the Battle of the Bombing Range. Carl and Jimi walked on some more; then they took a swim in the creek and Carl found a snake.

"Sure you don't want some?" he asked Jimi with a burp.

"I'm not hungry," Jimi said still feeling a little despondent after the battle. Sure, it had been a great pyrotechnics display but the thought of all those dead young men his age really depressed him. "Do people do that all the time out here?" he asked Carl.

"I don't think everybody likes roast snake," Carl replied. "But they should."

"No, I mean people getting killed all the time--like those soldiers, for instance."

"You kidding?" Carl responded with wide eyes. "Why I see dead people everywhere. You should have seen that crazy robot slaughtering guards left and right, and that's leaving out that killer deer. Of course, the real stuff's nothing compared to TV," he added after reflecting a moment. "In one show, they might slaughter thirty or forty folks, and that's a sitcom. I hate to even mention them cop shows."

"For entertainment?" Jimi asked. "How can people watch people hurting people for fun?"

"Jeez, I don't know," Carl responded feeling uneasy. He liked a good cop show himself. There was nothing like watching two or three dozen minority drug dealers get slaughtered by one blond Aryan using only a dull toothpick and a sawed-off shotgun.

"Boy, I don't know," Jimi taking a long lingering look back in the direction of home. Maybe he ought to return. Still, the thought of the twins made him shudder. They'd be madder than hell at him. "Okay, buddy," he said turning to Carl with a brave smile, "let's see some more of the world."

ELEVEN
"Ain't this the life?" Carl asked basking in the sun.

"You bet," Jimi agreed. They were floating down the creek lying on a wide log. What with the sun shining on the water, the glistening trees, Jimi couldn't help but feel pretty good right now. Surprisingly, he found himself thinking about Rose and/or Joan. He grew uneasy. "You think we can move this log a little faster?"

"What's the rush?" Carl asked.

"I was just wondering if those women are still chasing us?"

"Women can be real stubborn. You ought to see that wife of mine," said Carl. Jimi started poling the log.

They drifted miles down the slow creek through the course of the day. By late afternoon, Jimi began to notice floating beer cans, plastic bags; dead pets. The banks of the creek grew narrower and the water flowed faster. The outlines of houses flickered through the trees. Something popped and splashed in the water just ahead of them. There was a high-pitched giggle with an accompanying loud laugh. There was another popping sound. Something slammed into the log below their feet.

"What's that?" Jimi asked Carl.

"I don't know," Carl said just noticing two boys wearing the latest GI Joe military uniforms. They were aiming child-sized M16's that fired real bullets. There was a popping sound again. A bullet grazed Carl's hand.

"Hey, you cut that out!" he yelled.

"Hey, fuck you hippy wood's nigger!" one of them screeched as the other took aim again. Jimi dove into the creek and swam to the bank. Carl followed him. Bullets splattered the mud as they scrambled up into the trees.

"What's the matter with those kids anyway?" Carl said sucking the blood from the back of his hand.

"Let's circle around," Jimi advised gathering up some nice smooth rocks. Shots plinked randomly through the brush. Up a few hundred feet, they found a narrow concrete utility viaduct and crawled across.

"You think we got 'em?" Eddy Vader asked his friend.

"I don't know," Darth Wilson said. "I could launch my grenade."

Darth's Dad worked at the Lockhell Defense Ammunitions plant as a highly paid engineer. He kept a whole box of grenades under his bed in case of prowlers. Darth had helped himself.

"Do it," Eddy egged him on. Darth pulled the pin and tossed. There was an explosion in the brush.

"That ought to fix the dirty bums," Darth grinned. "Let's go see if there are any sur....Ouch!" he cried as a rock bounced off his helmet.

"Hey, cut that out!" Eddy yelled as Carl popped him one on the back.

"Stop it, I'm telling!" Darth screamed angrily not able to see the direction the rocks were coming from. Carl and Jimi had trapped them in a cross fire.

"Get into the bunker," Eddy howled diving into the high impact plastic GI Joe authentic bunker and command center his parents had bought from the local Toy World. They caught a few more rocks on various body parts as they scrambled in.

"Call my parents," Eddy sniveled quite unused to pain.

"Are you crazy?" Darth blubbered fumbling for his authentic GI Joe radio telephone. "You know they're never home. I'm calling Security."

"Yeah?" asked Parcel Smith, the Grassy Green Meadow's Development security dispatcher.

"Mayday, Mayday," Darth caterwauled as rocks bounced off the side of the command center.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, what's up?" Parcel responded with boredom. The brats around here yelled Mayday over poor television reception.

"We're under attack," Darth wept. "We weren't doing nothing honest, but these bums started throwing rocks at us. They're planning to sexually abuse us and chop us into pieces."

"Yeah, right. I thought I told you kids to leave shooting at trespassers to us," Parcel lectured as he inspected an interesting object from his nose.

"I know, I'm sorry. We won't do it again," Darth promised. "Please hurry," he begged. "I'll let you have my allowance for the next three weeks."

"I'd have to see that in writing," Parcel said.

"I'm writing it down now," Darth promised scribbling an IOU out on his GI Joe note pad.

"Can you have it faxed?" Parcel asked knowing what an oral promise from these little turds was worth.

"Please hurry!" Darth screeched. "I made poopy in my pants."

Parcel smiled, put the receiver down and ate the rest of his glazed doughnut.

"Cotton?" he yelled to his partner.

"I'm taking a shit."

"Yeah, well pinch it off. We got work."

"Now what?" Cotton asked hitching up his chinos around a fairly ample beer gut. He was puffy, soft, and very pale.

"It's those two GI Joe brats again."

"Great," Cotton moaned. "Who they kill this time?"

"They claim somebody's trying to kill them."

"So what's on TV?" Cotton asked taking a seat.

"Now come on, Cotton, you know as much as I'd like to leave those little shits to whatever trouble they've stirred up, their parents do sign our checks." Cotton groaned. It was true. Darth's dad did chair the Grassy Green Meadows Board of Selection, Evaluation, and Elimination. They reluctantly donned their flak jackets and SWAT suits taking their own sweet time.

"Take the machine guns?" Cotton asked as they exited their station.

"Hell, why not," Parcel said spitting tobacco juice on the pavement. They hopped into their bulletproof black van.

"See anything?" Parcel asked parking on the bridge leading over the creek.

"I see that GI Joe bunker," Cotton responded looking through his binoculars. "Yep, there they are. Two guys lobbing rocks at it."

"Trespassers?" Parcel asked.

"I'd say."

'You take the four-wheeler and come on down along the bank. I'll try to pick them off from the bridge."

"Got you," Cotton said crawling out.

"What's that noise?" Jimi asked pricking up his ears. Carl listened.

"All right!" he bellowed enthusiastically. "Somebody's got a motorcycle. Let's see if we can get a ride."

"Flush 'em out so I can get a clear shot at them," Parcel ordered Cotton over the CB as Cotton blasted up along the side of the creek in his armor-plated black ATV.

"This is the Grassy Green Meadows Security Force. Come out with your hands up," Parcel ordered through his bullhorn.

"Carl, run," Jimi cried seeing the black ATV hurtling towards him. He dashed to the bank of the creek.

"Don't look like he got his hands up to me," Parcel chortled as he sighted in on Jimi with a sniper's rifle. Jimi leaped just as the bullet caught him in the side. He hit the water with an awful splash and disappeared.

"What's going on?" Carl asked truly confused.

"Badow!, Badow!, Badow!" spat Cotton's mounted machine gun stripping the trees of their leaves.

"Help" Carl squawked. He cleared a six foot fence just as Cotton drilled it full of holes.

"Chase him down," Parcel ordered Cotton. "I'll confirm the first kill."

Two black Dobermans cowered fearfully as Carl ran by. He was just able to clear the gate when Cotton's machine gun fired.

Parcel stepping carefully along the bank checked for any sign of life. Nothing, not even a bubble. Hopefully the body would wash away downstream and save him the trouble of disposal. Grunting, he climbed back up to the van.

Tearing around the corner of the two car garage five bedroom split level complete with four full baths and an outside Jacuzzi, Cotton spotted Carl scrambling through some ornamental shrubs.

"Don't you dare fire at my prizewinning Indiana posies," Mrs. Walters screamed at Cotton through her front screen door.

"Sorry, ma'am," Cotton nodded racing down the driveway into the street. He spotted Carl swinging from a tree onto the Smith's roof.

"I got you now, sucker," Cotton sniggered grabbing his machine gun and taking aim.

"Don't shoot!" Barb Smith screamed running out of her house. "Charles didn't mean what he said!"

"I beg your pardon, ma'am?" Cotton asked raising the visor on his helmet.

"He didn't mean it," she sobbed hysterically. "I told him never to say it. He was drunk."

"What did he say?" Cotton asked. Sure, he was losing Carl but this was interesting.

"He said," Barb could hardly speak for her sobbing, "he said maybe they should allow minorities into Grassy Green Meadows. But only if they were Republican and paid higher fees."

"Goddamned race traitor," Cotton shook his head his fingers tightening in self-righteous anger on his machine gun.

"I'm sorry. I'm filing for divorce. We'll put our house up for sale."

Cotton roared off in disgust leaving the woman sobbing to herself in the middle of her driveway. Carl had disappeared.

Carl had just finished using the Smith's bathroom when Barb came in. She tried to scream, but couldn't and sank to her knees.

"Please make it quick," she begged.

"I already did," Carl smiled. "Hey, lady, do you think you could call the police? Some crazy guy is shooting at me and my friend."

"Please, help yourself, whatever," she gasped. "Would it be all right with you if I pray?"

"Sure," Carl smiled stepping around her. "Hey," he said catching the aroma of fresh roast beef. "Can I have a sandwich?" Barb nodding kept praying.

"Cotton, what's going on out there?" Parcel asked as he wheeled the black van down Tall Tree Avenue which was, of course, bare of any tall trees and only contained recently transplanted shrubbery.

"Oh, I lost the little rodent," Cotton complained. "But I think he's in the area."

"I'll keep an eye on the street," Parcel advised. "You conduct some house-to-house."

"All right," Cotton responded enthusiastically. He liked house to house. It was always a good way to pick up any loose valuables left lying around and blame it on the perp. He parked the ATV in front of the Richards house and without bothering to knock on the door, opened it with his master key.

"Shit, it's your husband," a naked youth sprang up from the couch.

"Oh for god's sake, Chip, my husband always comes in through the garage." said a bored Mrs. Richards lying back on the couch with her legs spread. She was completely nude.

"Sorry about the interruption," Cotton said trying to pretend he wasn't getting a good look. "We're chasing down a prowler. Anyone in here besides you and Chip?"

"Don't I wish," Mrs. Richards sighed. "You'd think a fifteen year old could at least keep it up for more than two minutes."

"I'm sorry, I was scared, if you don't mind," Chip protested.

"Right, well I just ran out of time," Mrs. Richards got up not bothering to put on her robe. "Now get out, both of you. It's time for my tennis lesson."

"What about my ten bucks?" Chip wanted to know.

"You didn't do anything," Mrs. Richards said raising her eyebrows. She walked upstairs.

"Goddamned bitch," Chip complained. "Who could get it up the way she's always going on? No, not that way, this way, higher, harder; what a fucking pain." Chip took a sneaky glance at Cotton, and then looked longingly at her purse just sitting there on a side table. "Split it with you. We'll blame whoever it is you're chasing."

"What are you talking about, boy?" Cotton said shoving the half-dressed teenager out the door. "I am sworn to uphold the law". Closing the front door, he strode quickly to Mrs. Richards purse and stuffed some bills in his pocket. The hell with blaming it on the trespasser, he'd blame it on Chip. The kid had a sheet a yard long.

"Are you still searching for that bum?" Mrs. Richards asked suddenly entering the hall now wearing a revealing set of tennis togs.

"Uh, yes, ma'am, everything's safe and sound."

"Put the money back in my purse, Cotton. I was watching you on closed circuit TV."

"Uhhh," Cotton stammered.

"Really, I thought Chip would be diving into my purse. Cotton, you surprised me, sort of."

"Uh, I'm sorry, ma'am," Cotton quivered in fear for his job. "I couldn't help myself. My Mother's got to have an operation."

"You don't have a mother, Cotton. I'm on the security hiring committee, remember?"

"You're not going to say anything about this, are you?" Cotton asked pulling the money from his pocket.

"Not, of course not, but in return, I would like, no, I require a favor," she smiled looking bored. "Chip is just not working out. I'd like to hire another young man for...chores. Now a youngster from the neighborhood would be fine, but, you know. I'm in the mood for a minority. Somebody with a good build, healthy, and suitably grateful. Let me know what you find."

"But ma'am..." Cotton tried to say. She knew that Green Grassy Meadows was supposed to be minority free. Heck, they couldn't even have minority servants in this place.

"I know I wouldn't be the first woman you guards have pimped for. Do it, Cotton, I've got your little theft on tape."

"Yes, ma'am," Cotton sighed, "I'll get right on it."

"I'll need someone by next week. At the very latest," she smiled icily signifying he was dismissed. Cotton tumbled out the front door.

"What the hell were you doing in there?" Parcel asked sarcastically from the van's open window. "Finishing up Chip's work?"

"Up yours, Parcel," Cotton said getting back on his four-wheeler.

"Let's get a move on. We got a call that a suspicious character just left the Smith's house and crossed back around the back of the cul-de-sac." Cotton spun the ATV around and blasted off across the street narrowly missing an older woman on her bicycle.

"That's alright," she cheerfully waved riding right into the side of Parcel's speeding van.

"You okay Mrs. Stratton?" Parcel asked looking down at the woman and her tangled bicycle.

"I'm fine," she gasped. "You go get those awful dangerous criminals before they kill somebody."

"Yes, ma'am," Parcel saluted tears coming to his eyes. God bless these folks. They were willing to take a bite out of crime no matter how risky it was for them.

Carl heard the splattering racket of the four-wheeler coming after him. He jumped a fence.

"Are you here to clean the pool?" a little girl asked staring up at him.

"Well, no."

"Oh...did you know the refrigerator wasn't working?"

"No, but I could take a look at it."

"Follow me," the little girl said self-importantly as she marched into the kitchen just as Cotton came crashing through the wooden fence.

"You hold it right there," he yelled.

"I didn't do anything," the little girl screamed raising her hands.

"I'm not talking to you, honey, I'm talking to this—hey, what the heck were you doing following her into the house?" Cotton barked advancing on Carl with a raised automatic pistol. Cotton tripped on a hose; his gun went off shattering the dining room window. A child who was watching television in the living room screamed hysterically and ran for the front door.

"Did he ask you to show him your pee pee hole?" Cotton asked the little girl.

"Uh, no," said the little girl looking confused. "Why? Do I have to?"

"Sir, she was showing me the refrigerator," Carl said eager to clear up any confusion.

"What kind of filthy pervert talk is that?" Cotton snarled pistol whipping Carl across the face.

"You hurt him," the little girl wept hysterically as Carl collapsed to the patio bleeding profusely.

"Of course I did, honey. That's what we do to child abusers. Now did he show you his thing?"

"His thing?" the little girl stammered truly frightened.

"Yeah, you know, his thing," Cotton said impatiently pulling his own penis out of his pants. "You know, this."

"No," the little girl said crying.

"What the hell are you doing?" Parcel demanded stepping through the ruins of the fence.

"Gathering evidence."

"You stick that back in your pants," he said turning to Carl's prostrate and bleeding form. "This the man?"

"He was fixing the refrigerator," the little girl sobbed.

"Little girl, go back inside and watch television. You leave this bad person to the big folks."

"I don't want to," she said stubbornly.

'You do what Parcel says," Cotton said pointing his gun at the back talking little brat.

"Jeez, Cotton, will you calm down?"

"I'm sorry, I just got my adrenaline up that's all. Just thinking about what he was planning on doing to that little girl."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, well, cuff this boy's ankles, his wrists, and put that hood over his head. I'll write up the report." He entered the house. The maid was standing in the middle of the dining room looking at the broken glass. When Parcel entered, she involuntarily screamed.

"What's your problem?" Parcel demanded sitting heavily at the dining room table. "Get me a beer."

"Christ this sucker's heavy," Cotton grunted trying to lift the unconscious Carl.

"Watcha doing, mister?" asked one of the neighborhood boys.

"You stand back, son. This is a dangerous criminal."

"Yeah," the boy grinned. "I heard he was throwing rocks at those two creeps Darth and Eddy."

"Yeah," chimed in another boy who was fairly chubby. "Those jerks are always picking on someone."

"Yeah, well Darth and Eddy were just doing their duty to the community. You know, like us."

"Doing your duty?" smiled an older girl with an intelligent glint in her eyes. "Is that what you call eating doughnuts and scratching your big fat ass?"

"You kids get on out of here," Cotton yelled waving his pistol. They scattered laughing. Cotton looked down at Carl and gave him a kick. His back was bad from too much sitting and getting the stuffing bounced out of him from that ATV. How was he gonna get this critter to the van? As he walked around Carl considering the matter, he tripped over the garden hose again. Now there's an idea.

"Ow," Carl groaned his head bouncing off the sidewalk as Cotton towed him across the driveway with the ATV.

"You awake, you little bastard?" he asked Carl giving him another kick.

"I guess," Carl groaned carefully.

"Then get your ass into the van," Cotton snarled. Carl staggered up. Cotton slugged him in the back. "That'll teach you to resist arrest." He handcuffed Carl's handcuff to a heavy steel stanchion.

"Everything under control?" Parcel asked exiting the house as he wiped beer off his mouth..

"Yeah," said Cotton.

"Follow me back," Parcel ordered. "This guy makes a move, you shoot to kill." Parcel got in the van and roared off almost hitting the limping Mrs. Stratton, who bleeding from several wounds, was pushing her wrecked bicycle home.

"You get that bad guy?" she called after him. Parcel triumphantly tooted his horn.

"Paperwork, paperwork," Parcel sighed throwing his report on the desk. He reached for a doughnut.

"Boy, that was work," Cotton said taking a sniff of his armpit after he scratched his butt. "Look, I raised a sweat."

"Yep, we earned our pay today," Parcel said with satisfaction.

"And then some," Cotton seated himself giving Parcel a knowing look. "That Maxwell kid hock that television yet? I want my cut."

"Yeah, he brought it by last night," Parcel grunted pulling out his wallet.

"Last night? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Look, I forgot about it, okay?" Parcel said tossing Cotton a twenty dollar bill. "It ain't like a twenty's going to make you rich."

"That's easy for you say, you don't get paid a hundred and sixty dollars a week."

"So I get a hundred and sixty five. Look at the headaches. You want to write these reports?"

"No," Cotton said quickly.

"Then shut up," Parcel smirked. They both knew Cotton was illiterate. Hell, Parcel could barely read and write himself.

"It just seems to me we could be making more money by selling the stuff ourselves," Cotton continued.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Parcel said. "Receiving stolen goods is a big headache. You got bills, overhead, advertising, believe me, taking a cut off the top is the best deal."

"Barely keeps a guy in beer," Cotton grumbled. "Speaking of which, I caught that Richards woman and Chip."

"What was he doing to her?" Parcel asked lasciviously.

"Didn't really see nothing. I mean, them doing nothing. I saw her. Just walking around as if I wasn't even there."

"Yeah, well we're just part of the furniture as far as a rich bitch like that is concerned."

"She caught me going through her purse."

"You're kidding," Parcel burst out. "Jeez, Cotton."

"I couldn't pass it up. I was gonna blame it on Chip, or the Perp. But they got a closed circuit television installed. I thought they were supposed to run that by Security?"

"They were, goddammit," Parcel sat up concerned.

"You think they suspect us of something?"

"Hell, I would, we're their security guards. Nah, she probably got it to spy on her kids; catch her husband try to dick the maid. So what'd she say about the purse thing?"

"She told me she'd keep it quiet."

"In return for what?" Parcel asked knowing those types never did nothing for nothing.

"Ah, she wants me to find her some fresh meat."

"You offer your services?" Parcel grinned.

"She don't want white trash," Cotton said bitterly. "She's looking for something brown with good manners."

"Is that so?" hemmed Parcel catching a whiff of opportunity up his nose. Cotton was right. Things were slow. The only real crime action in Grassy Green Meadows was the neighborhood kids ripping off their own parents, and while ten percent off most of that was nothing to sneeze at, he did have to consider his retirement fund. Sighing, he sat back doughnut crumbs spilling down his stained black shirtfront. Back when Grassy Green Meadows was only a swath through what had formerly been real grassy green meadows, he had been hired part-time to keep an eye on the contractors to make sure they weren't making off with too much of each others stuff. Now he was Cotton's direct superior and the nominal boss of the two jokers who worked the night shift. Sure he was still making a tad over minimum wage, which wasn't bad money these days, but possibly a little side pimping for the development might just get him that much closer to his dream retirement mobile home in central Arkansas.

"Ain't that a beaut, Cotton? Look at it," Parcel ordered gazing lovingly at a picture of his ideal mobile home tacked to the office wall.

"Yeah, it's a beaut, alright," Cotton said through a mouth full of doughnut. Parcel must have pointed that damn picture out to him a hundred times already, and that was only the past week.

"Yep, I'm almost ready to make that real estate salesman a little phone call," Parcel smiled.

"You just about got that down payment?" Cotton asked knowing full well Parcel hadn't. How in the hell was a guy working for minimum wage going to save ten grand anyway? As far as Cotton was concerned, Parcel was singing the impossible dream.

"I'm getting there," Parcel said with irritation. "You finish writing that report?"

"Uh, I thought you were going to write the report, uh, Boss?" Cotton asked instantly all nervous and sweating.

"You know, Cotton, sometimes I get tired of doing all the writing around here. Now it says on your job application, you graduated from high school. What'd you do, lie?"

"It's just I hurt my hand making that arrest."

"Uh, huh," Parcel said dryly, "well, I better not catch that hand flapping your ding in any little girl's face again, or you're gonna be my next prisoner."

"I was just trying to gather evidence," Cotton protested.

"Yeah, well you just gather yourself after work," Parcel said taking a long gaze at his ideal mobile home picture again. Yep, a man could live just like he wanted. Go fishing in the afternoon, visit the roadhouse in the evening. And according to the salesman, the troopers would let you off for a ten dollar bribe even if they caught you drunk driving. What a life, and he was gonna get there somehow or other. He brushed crumbs off his belly and burped.

"Jesus, it took you long enough!" Bunny Wilson screamed taking a long drink of her third glass of Cabernet.

"I rushed right home," Pinky said tossing his briefcase on the couch.

"I called two hours ago," she said looking up at him with intense, distraught eyes.

"I told you I was in a meeting."

"Yeah, right. Who were you meeting, your secretary at Motel Seventeen?"

"Yeah, right," Pinky said his face turning a bright shade of pink. "Any of that wine left for me?"

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Bunny almost shrieked.

"I just want a fucking drink. I told you I was in a meeting."

"A meeting? Your son's been traumatized, almost murdered by some filthy, crazed transient, and you're in a meeting. My god, Pinky, what's really important in your life?!"

"What's important is they're talking downsizing again."

"Oh, so what," she waved disdainfully almost tipping her glass. "You're management."

"Exactly," Pinky said searching the cabinets for the bottle of Cabernet. "They couldn't possibly can any more production workers. What the hell would we make? Now they're looking to cut some of the fat upstairs. Where in the fuck is that wine bottle!?" he howled in frustration.

"Is that your solution to everything?" she asked acidly, "drink, drink, drink?"

"I want a goddamned glass of wine," Pinky roared. "I've had a hard day. I'm not kidding, Bunny. After the last downsizing, Prestle really made a killing. We laid off 1800 salaried employees because our business sucks and the stock goes up ten points. Prestle thinks he can engineer the stock up a couple more points if he slashes management, especially upper management because that's where we have the most deadwood."

"He's crazy. Does that moron think he can run Prestle Zircon Limited by himself? He wouldn't even have the company if his Daddy hadn't left it to him."

"That's not the point," Pinky said pausing in his feverish search for wine. "He's counting on the news of more lay-offs to raise the stocks price and then he's going to sell it short."

"And where did he get that idea?" Bunny snorted mildly impressed.

"I guess one of his buddies mentioned it to him over Christmas while he was playing golf at Palm Springs. It's the latest fad in the CEO set. Jesus, if I only had forty or fifty thousand to stick in the market, we could double it. Look, Bunny," he said suddenly bending menacingly over his wife, "I'm going to ask you one more time, where is that wine?"

"I forgot," she lied. He grabbed her by the throat with both hands. "All right, all right," she gasped, "it's behind the TV."

"Thank you," he straightened reluctantly releasing her.

"Don't drink it all," she requested in a concerned tone.

"Drink it all?" said Pinky retrieving the half gallon jug with a grunt. "Looks like you made a pretty good start."

"So get off my back," she said taking another long sip. "You can drive to the liquor store."

"There's no money in the checking account," Pinky said taking a long swig from the bottle.

"Use the card."

"We're overextended."

"Because you have to play the big shot and pick up the tab for a six hundred dollar lunch," Bunny accused him.

"What about that two thousand dollar bill for your weekend of therapy at the fat farm?" he rejoined.

"I lost three pounds," Bunny said self-consciously drawing a hand over her thin face.

"Mom, Dad, are you talking about me?" Darth asked appearing at the head of the stairs to the second floor.

"No, we're talking about something serious," his father said. "What's your problem?"

"How can you be so cold to your own son?" Bunny asked taking another drink. "Of course we're talking about you, Darth, honey. How's Mommy's little stud stallion?"

"Jesus I wish you wouldn't do that," Pinky said taking another long swig.

"Do what?" she asked indignantly. "Act like his Mother?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean. It sounds incestuous."

"Boy have you got a dirty mind," she laughed loudly. "Pour me another drink."

"It's gone," Pinky said hurriedly taking a last swig.

"Why you asshole. Darth, honey, get Mommy another bottle of wine."

"Where?" the boy asked.

"You know," she smiled knowingly, "where Daddy He's-got-a-drinking-problem can't find it."

"Me?" Pinky exclaimed open mouthed.

"Mommy?" Darth asked turning at the top of the stairs.

"Yes, dear?"

"Could I have another couple of Valiums? I'm still feeling kind of upset."

"Certainly honey, help yourself," Bunny smiled blowing him a tipsy kiss.

"So what happened to him anyway?" Pinky asked from the kitchen where he had his own stash of hidden liquor.

"I gave your secretary a full report."

'That wasn't my secretary, that was the answering machine, and it ran out of tape."

"So I suppose you expect me to repeat it all?" she asked him with an expression of distaste.

"What's to repeat?" Pinky said wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "The kid went out, he got in trouble; now's he's trying to make us feel sorry for him."

"You are so cynical," she reacted with disgust.

"So what part of the story did I miss?"

"He was attacked."

"Jesus Christ, Bunny, I'm not a complete retard. He was attacked, and who did he attack first, one of the neighbor's kids, that UPS Delivery guy; another United States Postal Worker?"

"Every one of those was a clear case of self-defense."

"The kid's a nut, a psychopath."

"He was only protecting our property. You thought it was cute at first. You gave him the gun."

"Of course I gave him the gun. What choice did I have?"

"You didn't have to give it to him."

"Are you kidding? Half the kids in the development got a Junior M-16. If I hadn't, Darth would've probably called Family Services and turned me in. Anyway, the point to all this is we can't put Darth back into therapy for at least six months because we ran our insurance benefits out. Speaking of which, the company has been taking a real close look at which families are running up the highest medical claims. It's possible they'll get the ax."

"You mean I can't continue with my alcohol treatment?" Bunny asked dangling her glass.

"No, that's okay, but that Rankle guy down the street was just diagnosed with cancer. He's out for sure. And Marge Planter has a heart condition so it's sayonara to that cow."

"Thank god we've got our health," Bunny said relieved. "Have you seen my cigarettes?"

"You said you would stop smoking," said Pinky handing her one of his.

"I'll stop when you stop," she giggled.

"Hey, when you have to handle the stress I deal with everyday, you can smoke like a chimney."

"Stress? What stress, you jerk? The biggest stress in your life is how to lose a golf game gracefully to your boss."

"That's a big pile of stress," Pinky claimed. "That guy has got the worst back swing." He sat down heavily on the couch.

"You poor thing," she cooed, "let me rub your neck."

"Hey, go for it."

"My poor little working man," she said massaging him.

"Hey, that feels good."

"We really have to do something about Darth, you know."

"Really," agreed Pinky. "Hey, how much of that valium do you have left? He could take the whole bottle."

"Pinky!" Bunny smiled uneasily, "he could overdose."

"Look at the kid, he's a mess. Would it be such a loss?"

"You have such a sick sense of humor," she kissed his cheek.

"I'm serious. What if they cut back on our medical benefits? You want to pay for his therapy out of pocket?"

"He's our son," she insisted.

"You know, I've always wondered about that. You did sleep around."

"No, no, no, you slept around. I stayed home and developed a drinking problem."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. You gave me gonorrhea twice."

"No, wait, I specifically remember you sleeping with a guy named Ashley."

"You asked me to, silly. We blackmailed him."

"Huh?"

"Ashley Ploke. The two of you were up for promotion. If he didn't back off, I was going to testify that he raped me during the club's Christmas party."

"Oh yeah, I remember that," Pinky smiled. "What happened to those days, huh Bunny? We were a real team."

"Yes," she smiled reminiscing, "me trying to push you up the corporate ladder."

"And we did it, didn't we?" Pinky leaned back with a self-satisfied smile. "A great place, better than a hundred thou a year. Yep, hard to imagine that now I could get laid off like a common worker."

"It is hard to imagine."

"Do we have any money left from your father?"

"What do you mean, we?" Bunny asked. "Daddy left that money to me."

"Well, yeah, sure," Pinky said uneasily, "but what if I get the ax?"

"I leave you, of course. The trust only generates enough income for me."

"What about Darth?"

"I certainly couldn't take care of him."

"Boy, that's just great."

"Well, what did you expect? Certainly I love my little boy, but we're talking survival. Did I tell you I saw a poor person at the Mall?"

"At the Mall?" Pinky asked with interest.

"It was so weird, I don't know how she got in, but here I was sitting in the chair having my hair done when I looked up to find this... person thing staring at me."

"Jesus, really?" Pinky said bending forward with concern. "What did you do?"

"Well, at first I couldn't do anything, I mean she was obviously poor, that is, some shade of brown, and she was wearing this old jacket, you could see it was out of style. I don't know, I could only think that she was going to come crashing through the glass and cut my throat."

"Did they call Security?"

"Finally. Two officers dragged her out the front."

"What goes through these people's heads?" Pinky said shaking his.

"I don't know, but she won't enter that Mall again. When I left, they were still giving her a beating." She giggled suddenly. "And Darth, he was so cute, he wanted to join in."

"That's my boy," Pinky sat back proudly. "Hey, you want another drink?"

"Sure," Bunny said mildly surprised that Pinky would refill her glass from his hidden stash. "You see, Pinky, he's not such a bad kid."

"Hey, we raised him," Pinky called out from the kitchen. He reentered carrying two doubles.

"Pinky?"

"Yes...?"

"You know, I was thinking, why couldn't we work together again, like we did in the old days?"

"Doing what?"

"I don't know, there must be something we could do to help your situation at work."

"We could murder the CEO."

"Get serious," she scoffed.

"No, I'm serious. With Prestle out of the picture, his stock holdings revert to his heirs. Now his wife's dead, his kids, those that he hasn't disowned yet, are either institutionalized or completely unsuited to running the business."

"It sounds like you could end up being run by a bunch of lawyers," she mumbled into her drink.

"Hey, lawyers aren't so bad to work with. As long as a profit shows, they pretty much leave you alone. What do they know about business?"

"I know some lawyers who do pretty well."

"Yeah, but they don't actually make money, they just take it from someone who knows how."

"The same could be said about a lot of you. Anyway," Bunny reflected thoughtfully, "we're getting off the point. If Prestle were eliminated, who else could be in line to take over?"

"Well, with Prestle gone, it means his chief group of butt-kissers goes too. That would be Adams in Finance, Torkel in Accounting..."

"What about you?"

"Hey, if I were part of that gang, I'd be making another hundred thousand a year."

"Yes, dear, I realize that. It's just that we have to determine how to make our way."

"The whole lot of them play golf every day at Land of Links," Pinky smiled slightly.

"So...?"

"I'm just saying they're all together at the same time."

"Mommy, I took two more Valiums, I still don't feel very quiet," Darth cried from the top of the stairs.

"Oh, Honey, your father and I are talking for once. Why don't you try some of that wine?" his mother responded.

"I don't like wine," Darth called.

"Then mix up some vodka and orange juice."

"Okay," said the boy tramping down the stairs wearing GI Joe jammies.

"What's the matter, sport?" Pinky said playfully smacking the side of Darth's head, "you still feeling kind of funny."

"Yeah, I had a real scary day."

"Mom says you were attacked while defending home and hearth. Now do you understand why I told you to shoot them in the back and don't miss? You're going to have to work on your aim."

"Yeah, I know. Hey Dad, could you call school and tell them to let me back on the rifle team?"

"You betcha," Pinky enthused, "you get your aim down and..." He stopped and looked thoughtfully at his empty glass. "I just got one hell of an idea."

"What's that, dear?" Bunny asked.

"It's like this: Darth can't be prosecuted because he's a minor, right?"

"Yes...?" she replied uncertainly.

"Darth, how would you really like to help the family?" The boy regarded his father warily.

"Would it involve work?"

"No, it wouldn't be work. Heck, you'd have fun."

"What would he have to do?" his mother asked.

"Listen carefully," Pinky said looking serious, "we get Darth on to the golf course, I don't know, maybe he's carrying their clubs."

"Hey, man," the boy interrupted his father, "you said it wouldn't involve work. Those things weigh a ton."

"All right, all right, I don't suppose it would look good to have Darth associating with all that lower class colored trash. Although, you know, Pedro, the kid who carries my bags, he's not such a bad kid. He was telling me the other day, what a hoot, 'Mr. Wilson,' he says seriously, 'I want to go to college.' 'Pedro', I told him, 'get real, get to know the business end of a broom.' He kind of nodded in that funny little way they have. What a card."

"I'm glad you tried to instill a little sense in the boy, dear," Bunny smiled patiently, "but what's this have to do with Darth?"

"Okay," Pinky said after a long thoughtful look at his family, "I'm going to sketch this out so try to fill in the blanks. Darth is hanging out at the golf course, right, you know keeping an eye out for, you know, trespassers, and he sees someone, I don't know, a gang of marauding black drug fiends carrying boom boxes, and so he shoots, and, well, wipes out the bunch of them. Unfortunately, it turns out that they weren't really marauding black drug fiends but..." He paused meaningfully.

"Mom," complained Darth who had little or no patience for his Father's long, rambling incoherent monologues, "could I go to bed?"

"Just a minute, dear, your father is trying to say something. Honey are you suggesting that Darth slaughter your boss?"

"Not just you-know-who but the whole gang of them."

"But what if he's caught?"

"Hey, he's been diagnosed, and he's under legal age. It's perfect," Pinky smiled. "Don't you think?"

"I'm worried. If he does miss and the President realizes it's our child. Wouldn't there be repercussions?'

"Hmm," said Pinky. "I see what you mean. We're definitely going to have to work on the kid's aim."

"Sounds cool to me," Darth said looking sleepy.

"Yes, well you better scoot to bed," Bunny waved in a somewhat relaxed fashion as Pinky smiled.

"Goodnight son," he called.

"You want to do what?" Parcel asked the large man standing in the doorway who was wearing a loosened tie.

"I said, I just bought a stun gun for my wife and we'd like to test it on the prisoner," the man repeated patiently.

"That's what I thought," Parcel taking shooting a quick glance at Cotton. "Is that legal?"

"Hey, the perp's a criminal, isn't he? Who cares?" responded Cotton.

"Well, yeah, sure, uh, Mr.—what did you say your name was?"

"Phillips, I work for Xenon Defense. We just bought the $749, 000 Camilla model on Wentley."

"Yeah," chimed in Cotton. "Nice place. You like that ten foot Jacuzzi?"

"Yeah, it's great," grunted Phillips. "Now how about it?"

"Well, you see it's like this, Mr. Phillips," Parcel hawed. "We're allowed to, you know, use all means necessary to subdue a prisoner, but that doesn't really cover you."

"Yeah, well how am I supposed to know if this thing works if I can't test it out?" Phillips complained fishing into his pocket for a fifty. "Look, I'm willing to sweeten the pot, but I was led to believe this sort of thing was covered in the dues." Parcel's eyes widened as did Cotton's. His hand involuntarily twitched towards the cash. "So what do they pay you guys, anyway," Phillips smiled waving the fifty, "minimum wage? This'll buy a lot of Koors." Outside a car horn bonked impatiently. Phillips turned to call out, "Just a minute, honey. I'm almost through."

"I guess it would be the prisoner's word against ours," Parcel drawled.

"We could say he tried to escape," Cotton added quickly flicking a bit of doughnut glaze off his dry lips.

"How much time do you need to zap him?" Parcel asked taking the fifty. "Five minutes, okay?"

"Now is this going to be dangerous?" a mildly chubby Mrs. Phillips asked as Cotton unlocked a dark cell.

"No, ma'am," Cotton assured her, "the prisoner is completely secured." Carl blinked his eyes open into an extremely bright flashlight and smiled.

"It time to eat?" he asked.

"Goddamn damned criminal scum!" Phillips snarled wading in past his wife. He kicked Carl viciously in the ribs.

"Mr. Phillips!" Cotton cried out grabbing Phillips by the arm. "We can't have you doing that."

"Why the hell not?" Phillips spat straining to land Carl another kick.

"Now sir," Cotton said leading him away from the groaning Carl, "you only said you wanted to test your stunner."

"Besides, Rodney, you could damage those expensive shoes," his wife added.

"Sorry," Phillips gasped. "I just lost control. It's hard for a law abiding citizen not to want to take things into his own hands. Especially when you see scum like that all tied up and at your mercy!" he frothed struggling to get at the prisoner.

"Mr. Phillips!" Cotton yelled yanking the man back. "Now I can't be letting you kick the prisoner. At least not for fifty bucks."

"All right then," Phillips gasped breathing heavily. "How much for a good beating?" Cotton paused. He looked carefully back at the office where Parcel was inside watching television. He reached out and closed the double doors.

"One hundred dollars more," Cotton said. "And it's our little secret."

"One hundred bucks it is," Phillips rasped handing Cotton a hundred dollar bill.

"Now I'm going to step out the door for five minutes. You can do anything you want but no guns and no knives."

"Do you think we could borrow your nightstick, Officer?" Phillips asked. "These really are expensive shoes."

"Sure, but you got to promise not to beat him on the head."

"You've got my word."

Cotton nodded. He stepped outside and shut the doors.

Five minutes later Phillips limped out of the cell supported by his wife.

"You folks have fun?" Cotton asked.

"I thought the stunner worked very well," Mrs. Phillips smiled.

"Sorry, but I busted your stick," Phillips said handing Cotton the two pieces and an additional twenty. "That was great. You boys can have my recommendation anytime."

"And thank you, sir" Cotton smiled bobbing his head.

"By the way," Phillips paused looking down at his blood spattered Arturo Zambioni limited edition hand tailored slacks, "we're new to the neighborhood. Where's a good dry cleaner?"

"Wow," said Cotton looking Carl's battered body over with a flashlight. "They sure did a number on you." He bent down awkwardly trying to feel for Carl's pulse. The little bastard was still alive. Cotton shook his head.

"So how'd it go?" Parcel asked without looking up from the television set.

"Okay, I guess," Cotton said sitting heavily.

"What'd you think of that stunner?" Parcel asked.

"Kind of made a mess, I'd say," Cotton responded checking to see if there was any coffee.

"A mess?" Parcel asked. "How could a stunner make a mess? The little sucker shit his drawers?"

"Sort of," Cotton said noncommittally.

"Sort of?" Parcel snorted. "I better go have a look." He paused. "Hey, you didn't let those two do nothing sexual to that guy did you? You know I don't like that."

"They didn't even ask," Cotton said holding up his hands.

Parcel was surveying the interior of the cell when Cotton joined him. Parcel didn't even turn.

"So how much they pay you, Cotton?"

"For what?" Cotton said trying to play the innocent.

"For beating the ever-loving shit out of this guy. That's a hundred dollar job if I ever saw one."

"I swear, Parcel. I turned my back on them one minute."

"And so how did they get this?" Parcel asked holding up the two pieces of Cotton's nightstick.

"Jeez, Parcel, thanks," Cotton said. "I misplaced that thing."

"I'll be misplacing that thing up your ass if you don't share and share alike."

"You want to share?" Cotton hissed hotly. "Okay, fine, where's my half of that fifty bucks?"

"What's this about half? Who's in charge here?" Parcel asked sucking in his gut.

"The point is you're always taking money and you never say a thing to me."

"That's a goddamned heathen lie."

"Yeah? Well what about that seventy five you took from Hank Sweatham to poison his neighbor's six dogs?"

"You're crazy!"

"I got it all on tape," Cotton grinned.

"Why you son of a bitch," Parcel cursed drawing his service revolver. He jammed it into Cotton's ribs. "Hand over that money right now or that prisoner just grabbed your gun and killed you."

"It's just not fair," Cotton started bawling tears streaming down his face as he handed Parcel the money.

"Who said it was, you damned fool communist?" Parcel said as he checked the bill. "That's a nice little chunk of change. Okay, we got fifty plus a hundred and twenty, that's what, a hundred and seventy? Okay, here's your half," he said handing Cotton some money from his pocket. Cotton counted it.

"Since when is sixty bucks a half of a hundred and seventy five?"

"It sure in the hell is."

"I may not be able to read too good, Parcel, but I sure do know my money. You owe me twenty five."

Parcel stared at him surprised. "Okay, it was an honest mistake," he said handing Cotton a few more bills. "From now on: fifty-fifty."

"What about when you poisoned those dogs?"

"I said, 'from now on'. Don't push your luck."

Carl groaned softly. Both men turned and stared.

"What are we going to do about him?" Cotton wanted to know.

"Shit, I don't know," Parcel said checking his watch. "Look, it's quitting time. Toss this asshole in the van and we can think about it while we're having a beer."

They met the second shift just as they were heading out.

"Hey, where you taking the van?" Will Whapster whined getting out of his ancient Pinto.

"We're escorting a prisoner to jail," Parcel said leaning out the window. "Where's your partner?"

"I don't know," Whapster said scratching his pimply chin. "Sometimes he gets stuck in that freeway traffic. His other job's better than eighty miles away."

"Yeah, well if he can't get to work here on time, there's plenty who can," Parcel said. He hit the gas.

"Fat prick," Whapster snorted watching the van disappear into the dusk. Snagging himself a doughnut, he flipped through the latest copy of "Crotch Itch", the magazine for discerning gentlemen of excellent taste.

Uneasy and worried at the sounds of a distant freeway and lights streaming from the isolated houses, Joan sat listening and looking for some sign of Jimi from the back of her steaming horse. She stopped. She was certain he was close. She had just heard a very familiar snore. She got down off the horse to have a look.

"Well, hey, Joan," Jimi look up smiling sleepily lying half in and half out of the creek. "What 'cha doing here? Hey," he said looking at her with some concern. "Best beat it. Mom don't like me messing with girls in my room."

"Keep it down," she commanded in a sharp whisper as she pushed, heaved, and pulled him up the muddy creek bank.

"Ow," he groaned.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know. Something hurts in my back." Joan checked him quickly.

"Oh, for god's sake, Jimi, you've got a hole in you. My gosh, is that a bullet wound?" Jimi kind of looked up her trying to think. He giggled drunkenly.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact I think it is. It was a pig. He shot me. Unc was right."

"How?" she said checking the wound. His clothes were all matted with blood.

"He said, watch out for the Pigs. They shoot people in the back."

"A pig shot you?" Joan repeated thinking he meant pigs literally which she chalked up to Jimi's obvious delirium.

"Yeah, maybe he was telling the truth about a lot of things. Hey, I've had enough. Let's go home." He tried to raise himself up and collapsed. "I guess I need a little rest." Joan felt his forehead.

"Jimi, I'm scared. You're running a high fever."

"Yeah, and I don't feel so great either," he said mumbling into the soft mud of the creek bank. Joan stiffened hearing one squeak and then another and another as if something rolling towards her along the bank. She felt quickly in the moonlight for the long hunting knife Jimi always wore on his belt.

"Hey," Jimi giggled. "Knock it off. I'm not in the mood."

"You hush," she fiercely whispered moving slowly up the bank in a predatory crouch. Nobody else was going to hurt her man.

Peering through the tall grass at the top of the bank Joan could see someone pushing a bicycle down the trail. Squeak, squeak, squeak went the rear wheel. Joan's horse snorted and turned around as the bicyclist lay down the bike and approached while reaching out to touch the beast's flank. Joan smiled grimly to herself. That guy was going to get a hell of a kick.

"There, there, there, Spots, easy," whispered a familiar calming voice. It was her sister!

"What are you doing here?" Joan asked hotly striding from the bushes.

"Just what do you think?" Rose's eyes flashed back at her despite the weak moonlight.

"Well, I found him first so there," Joan said triumphantly. Then she paused and looked uncertain. "Can you help me get him home?"

"Help? What'd you do, tie him up? And why should I help you?"

"Because he's hurt. He was shot by a pig."

"A pig? What have you been smoking?" Rose asked.

"Jimi said it, I didn't. The point is he's got a real bullet hole in him. We've got to get him home."

"Are you sure you didn't shoot just to slow him down?" Rose asked following her down the bank.

"I don't even have a gun."

"Poor baby," Rose cried softly rushing to Jimi's side. He was snoring away. "Is this the best you could do for him?" she turned angrily to her sister.

"I hauled him out of the water and don't you forget it. He's mine."

"He's not going to be anyone's unless we get him medical attention."

"Take his arm," grunted her sister as they hauled him up the bank. Joan whistled for her horse. The giant beast trotted over softly and stood still.

"Boy, this is going to be fun," Rose said regarding the giant horse. "Could you get him to kneel down?"

"I could find you a step ladder," piped up a young voice. Both women froze.

"Who's that?" Joan called out cautiously.

"Amanda," said a young girl appearing from the brush. "I was watching your friend. A dog started to chew his arm. I hit it with a rock."

"Thanks," said Rose allowing herself to breathe again. "So what are you doing out here all alone?"

"Oh, my parents are fighting again. They always fight when the credit card bills arrive," she announced brightly.

"Actually," Joan said not sure she could trust the child, "I don't think we need anything. Down, Spot," she told the horse. The giant horse folded its rear legs up under itself and sat.

"Wow," admired the little girl, "what a neat horse."

"One, two, three, push," Rose counted as they heaved Jimi up on the giant steed's back.

"Is he going to be okay?" Amanda asked.

"He's pretty tough. He should be."

"He's not tough enough for the two of us," Rose said.

"How could he be?" her sister hissed. "The way you keep after him?"

"Me? I'm not the family sex fiend."

"I like the way you two fight," Amanda giggled interrupting.

"Why?" Joan asked surprised.

"Because you don't fight like you hate each other and want to see the other die." There was a pause as Rose and Joan looked uncomfortably at each other.

"Why should we hate each other?" Rose asked. "He's only a man."

"Do your parents fight like they hate each other?" Joan asked.

"Yes," Amanda replied her voice catching. "Wow, cool bike," she said changing a painful subject.

"Yeah, it's not bad once you get the hang of it," Rose said picking up Myron's mountain bike. It was the very latest. "It's just I picked up this damned squeak ever since I rode it through the creek."

"Let's get going," Joan said mounting the horse. Spot stood.

"Could I come too?" Amanda asked. There was a crash of broken glass. Someone across the stream had broken out a window. Angry screaming flew across the creek.

"Great, you stupid retard asshole!" yelled a woman, "there's another four hundred bucks on the card."

"Shut up, you goddamned whore!" screamed a man.

"That's my parents," Amanda said matter of factly, "I have a mountain bike too. I can ride it really fast. Do you think I could go with you?" She picked her bike out of the weeds and looked up at the two with big sad eyes. Rose looked at her sister. Her sister looked back.

"It's a free world, Amanda. You can do what you want," Rose smiled.

"Home, Spot, fast and smooth," Joan whispered bending over the horse's neck. The horse took off at a gentle trot, Amanda peddling after followed by Rose.

"Ouf," grunted Jimi and they were gone.

TWELVE
Parcel drained his sixth beer. He looked across the table to Cotton who was staring at the skinny naked woman gyrating wildly in front of his face. Suddenly she stopped.

"That's it, buddy, unless you got another five bucks. Care to plug it in?" She looked at him with dead eyes as pulled open her g-string stuffed with cash.

"Sorry, honey, I'm broke." She turned on her heel dismissively facing Parcel.

"Hi, I'm Tiffany. Like a table dance? You can't do anything but look."

"Beat it," Parcel said staggering up. He'd never get that retirement trailer in Arkansas blowing it on the likes of her. "Come on, Cotton, let's go."

"Sure thing," Cotton grinned staggering over his stool. He had blown every dime he had on table dances and Koors.

"Ah, ain't life great?" Parcel proclaimed as they entered the parking lot. He stood there patting his extended stomach and gazing at the stars. The sky was inky black with just a hint of diesel perfuming the air. Cotton bent over to throw up. Parcel chuckled then stopped. Speaking of messes, just what in the hell were they gonna do with that prisoner? Couldn't very well take him to the sheriff who would surely ask some embarrassing questions, like how much money did they get? Oh, no, he wasn't sharing no more of nothing with anyone. "You gonna live?" he asked Cotton who was still retching and breathing hard.

"I'm not sure," Cotton said. "It looks like I puked some blood." Parcel bent over and took a look.

"Blood? Hell, Cotton, looks like you lost an organ," Parcel observed.

"I think that's one of them beer sausages I bought."

"Shit, that sucker must have been in that jar the last ten years. So you want to go to the hospital?"

"Are you kidding?" Cotton paled. "Last time I stepped foot in that place, I was paying for the next three years. They charge higher interest than a credit card. Hey, I just need to drink some more. Worked fine so far. You think you could drive me home?" he added with a weak smile.

"Yeah, I'll drive you home, but you're forgetting somebody."

"Oh, shit," Cotton said wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"So what are we gonna do?" Parcel asked

"Shit, Parcel," Cotton whined holding his head in his hands. "I don't know. Let's just toss him out the back of the van."

"Can't do that," Parcel said just holding the steering wheel in his hands. "Too many people saw the man. They'd know who he was."

"We could say he escaped."

"Beat up like that? Besides, the Development Association doesn't like escapees. Bad for our security reputation."

"Okay, goddammit, let's drive him out somewhere and dump him off."

"Where?" Parcel asked.

"I don't know. Welford County. Nobody'd know the guy out there."

"That's fine," Parcel said, "but who's gonna drive way out there, and more importantly, who's gonna pay for the gas?"

"Parcel, I'm too drunk to drive, and I'm broke."

"That's my point," Parcel said with a meaningful look. "I don't have the time to drive to Welford County and I sure don't have the dough."

"So what are we gonna do?" Cotton moaned. Parcel turned toward him looking real serious.

"You see why I deserve the biggest cut, Cotton? I'm always doing the thinking. Ain't that right?"

"I guess," Cotton admitted reluctantly.

"So the next time I say we split the take sixty-forty—which is more than fair—am I gonna hear any shit from you?"

"No, Parcel, I swear. You got a plan?" he added in a small hopeful voice.

"'Course I do. That's the difference between you and me. I like thinking. Thinking's something I enjoy. So listen up. Some kids stole a car and left it in the brush about a mile down the road. We put the prisoner in the car. We soak it all real good with gasoline, light it up and take off. After the thing explodes, there won't be nothing left of the sucker except a few unidentified bones."

"I like that idea, Parcel," Cotton grinned. "It's simple, convenient, and I love starting fires."

"Damn right," smiled Parcel hitting the gas. Ignoring the stop sign, he drove right into the highway without looking either way.

"Man, what a mess," the state trooper said kicking the side of the blackened van. Peg nodded feeling sick to her stomach and shaky. The whole front end of the thing had been sheared off by the impact of her rig and her twelve ton load of sheet steel.

"They drove right out in front of me," Peg repeated dully for the umpteenth time. "There was no way I could stop in time."

"Hey," grinned the trooper, "nobody's blaming you. Hell, they were just leaving Snuffy's Bar, weren't they?" His beeper went off. "Excuse me," he grinned taking a pocket phone out. "I got a little business on the side. What's that? The man didn't show? Of course I did, I showed him where to mop and everything. I'll be right there. Goddammit," he grinned at Peg, "being a contractor these prisoner release programs is nothing but a headache. And people think I'm getting rich because they work free. Scumbag violated his parole—nothing but paperwork. Hey," he grinned sweetly, "I already called a tow truck. You mind if I go?"

"Whatever," Peg said dully looking away from the bloodied and twisted metal. She walked down alongside the van idly tapping it with her knuckle. There was a tapping sound in return. She tapped again. Something tapped in answer. Could that be an echo, she wondered? She tapped out a more complicated rhythm. The tap in response repeated, then faltered. "There's somebody in that van," she said wrenching open the back door of the van. "Oh my," she said barely able to recognize Carl. Whereas the other two up front had died instantly mainly for lack of seat belts, Carl had been chained to the inside wall.

"Hey, Peg," he smiled weakly; then he was out like a dead bulb.

"What the hell do you mean, you can't accept him?" Peg said outraged at the hospital admissions counter. A hollow eyed clerk stared up at her without expression from behind the steel security cage.

"I told you, he has no proof of insurance. There's a public hospital down the road."

"How far?" Peg asked.

"About two hundred miles. Next!" the clerk called out. Peg glanced desperately at Carl lying stretched out on the carpet. She didn't think he could last another couple of hundred miles. "Look," she said. "I know he's broke, but you can't just let him die." The clerk looked up over the desk and down at Carl.

"Honey, I work here and I don't have insurance. Do you think they'd let me in? Anyways," she added trying to be kind, "he doesn't look that bad to me. I'm sure a good night's sleep and a couple of aspirin will do wonders for him."

"He just survived a head-on car wreck with two fatalities."

"People really should drive more carefully," the clerk responded. "Now will you move please? Or do I have to call hospital security?" Peg followed the clerk's pointed glance. Along the wall lounged a SWAT team trading jokes as they aimed their automatic weapons in an intimidating manner at the patients.

"All right, all right," Peg gave up. Pulling Carl up like a sack of groceries, she hoisted him over shoulder.

Walking heavily into the night air, Peg glanced up at the stars. She stopped, she turned around. "By god, Carl, I'm gonna get you into that hospital—somehow."

Peg drove her rig around the immense hospital racking her brains for a way in. Every entrance was locked. She'd almost passed the service entrance when an idea occurred to her. Hell, she'd made deliveries to hospitals before. It was sure worth a try.

"Receiving's closed," the bored guard looked up her fingering his stainless steel pistol.

"Special delivery," Peg lied quickly hefting the heavy cardboard box on her knee. "Supposed to bring it to the fifth floor."

"I thought UPS was supposed to handle all that?" he asked her suspiciously.

"Shh," Peg leaned forward, "we're working on a special scab contract. You know those union guys. They actually get paid a living wage."

"Yeah," grumbled the security guard writing her out a pass, "some guys get all the breaks." Tipping her baseball cap, Peg wheeled in her load.

"Say, buddy," Peg asked a passing janitor, "can you tell me where they put the car wreck victims?"

"That would be three north," the janitor told her dragging his mop dispiritedly across the floor.

The elevator whooshed open onto a broad, gleaming tiled expanse overseen by an onyx black nurses' station flanked by batteries of television monitors. Peg hefted the card board box with a grunt and walked in. Setting Carl on the wide counter she looked up and down the dully lit hallways. Each monitor was connected to a room. Some of the patients lay quietly in their beds as if dead or heavily drugged, but many were gesturing for attention at the camera feebly before flopping back like exhausted fish.

"Hell," Peg grumbled, "it looks like they're all full up. Oops, wait a minute," she said stopping at one monitor. If that guy wasn't dead, how come all those flies were buzzing around his head? She looked closer. Sure enough, he was in an advanced stage of rigor mortis. Taking a sharp look for any authorized personnel, she hefted her box once more and entered the room.

"Rest in peace, Mr. Hillsdale," Peg said laying the cold stiff corpse of Mr. Hillsdale on the cool floor and sliding him respectfully under the bed. She got Carl all covered up in the sheets and changed a few numbers on Hillsdale's chart, like his age.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but visiting hours are over," an old looking nurse said pushing open the door. "Oh my, there's a body under the bed," she said setting her glasses on her nose. "Darn those lazy orderlies. This isn't the first time. Oh, I hate this. What a miserable amount of paperwork."

"If uh, you'll take care of my, uh, Mr. Hillsdale here," Peg said gesturing at Carl, "I'll take care of that body for you."

"You would?" the ancient Thelma at first smiled gratefully. "But how?"

"I don't know," Peg shrugged helplessly. "I'll think of something."

"We'll get you a gurney," the old nurse smiled craftily. "You wheel him over to Ward Six—they're always dropping like flies there—just leave him in the hall. Now what happened to Mr. Hillsdale?" she said picking up the chart. "Auto wreck. Hmm, interesting wounds for a wreck. Looks to me like a he was beaten by a police truncheon. You see a lot of that in Ward Six. Were you two engaged in the practice of kinky sex?" she asked looking over the top of her bifocals.

"Actually, ma'am, I've got to get back to work," Peg said.

"And are these cuff marks on his wrist," the old nurse asked. Thelma wasn't falling for anything.

"To tell the truth, Mr. Hillsdale was being transported in a private security van and uh..."

"Oh, well, if it was private," Thelma smiled in relief. "That's fine as long as the Sheriff's not looking for him. Look, dear," she smiled, "you just roll this corpse into a closet or something and I'll take good care of your friend here. Deal?"

"Yes, ma'am," Peg tipped her baseball cap dragging the corpse into the hall,"thanks so much. I'll be back by to visit just as soon as I'm able."

"You do that dear," Thelma cackled examining Carl. "But don't hurry. You won't be getting any sense out of this one for days."

"Mr. Hillsdale," a grandmotherly voice said to Carl, "are you awake? Come on now, the Doctor likes to see his patients awake, smiling, and looking grateful. Wake up. This is really quite a privilege, you know. He hasn't visited the floor the entire week."

"Uh..." Carl groaned mildly coming to.

"Yes, dear, that's better," said the old Mrs. Anderson, the day shift nurse. She bent over to lift Carl with a grunt. "Now sit up straight."

"Hurry up in there, Anderson," the Doctor called out impatiently from the hallway. "Make that man presentable. I've got sixty more patients to see and a very important meeting with the Chief Administrator of my, uh, er, our endowment fund in less than half an hour."

"The patient is ready to see you now, Doctor," old Nurse Anderson called out in her quavering voice. "Uncross your eyes, dear," she whispered to Carl, "the Doctor will think you're making fun."

"Ah, Mr., uh..," the Doctor swept in looking like an actor off a British television program. He paused glaring angrily at Nurse Anderson.

"That's Hillsdale," she said fumbling with her glasses and the chart.

"Yes, I can see that," said the Doctor smiling graciously and snatching the chart. "I am Doctor Westfield Cherrypit the Third. Ah, I see you're our covered by Blue Metro. Excellent, excellent, a very reputable insurance firm, and I see you have excellent benefits. Uh, Anderson," he said looking quickly about the room, "I don't think we're doing enough to make Mr. Hilldale comfortable or healthy. Order the man more flowers. From our florist's shop of course, and he could certainly use a bigger television set. Have housekeeping bring in the big screen job that rents for an extra three hundred dollars a day. And this floor, it's so cold. We can have it carpeted. And by the way, order more tests."

"What kind of tests, Doctor?"

"I don't know," he snapped impatiently. "Any sort you like. Use your imagination. The more complicated the better. Need I explain?"

"No, sir."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr.Hillman," Doctor Cherrypit smiled shallowly being sure to show off his excellently expensive teeth. He vigorously shook Carl's hand. The patient grunted in pain. "By the way," Cherrypit continued, "I'll be leaving you a little information about my, uh, er, our foundation." He dropped a packet on Carl's stomach the size of a major metropolitan phone book. "Take a look at it. We do excellent work, and all contributions are entirely tax-deductible. Nurse!" he snapped. "Let's get the lead out!" He turned to Carl. "Take a look at it. We do excellent work on, uh..," Cherrypit quickly scanned Carl's chart, "—on auto wrecks. Yes, saved thousands of lives. And, don't forget, all contributions are entirely tax deductible. A pleasure meeting you." He shook Carl's arm vigorously. Carl groaned. "Anderson," he ordered sharply, "I've got forty more patients and tee up's in half an hour. Is it time to begin discussions again on your early retirement?"

"Yes, I mean, no, Doctor," the old nurse quavered exiting out the door, but she didn't shuffle fast enough to suit the doctor. He pushed past her tripping over her cane.

"Damn, you clumsy old oaf," the good Doctor grunted as he hit the floor. "My god," he exclaimed wrinkling his aristocratic nose, "it smells like someone died. When was the last time they cleaned?"

"I think it was just before most of the janitors were laid off as a cost cutting measure," Anderson smiled sweetly.

"Really?" Cherrypit scowled. "What idiot would do a thing like that?" He got up stiffly. "Goodness, I think I'm actually in some pain."

"What a shame, Doctor," Anderson smiled sweetly. "Should I have you admitted?" Cherrypit turned white and actually trembled. "In this hell pit? Are you insane!--I mean," he smiled snatching for his composure, "thank you, no. It's nothing really-Ow!" he cried his leg crumpling slightly under him because of a twisted ankle.

"Really, Doctor, we must insist," she smiled taking his arm in her iron grip.

"Leave me alone, you hag!" Cherrypit screamed.

"Now Doctor, you know the rules on unruly patients," she smiled sweetly flashing a long hypodermic.

"Let me go," he thrashed violently, but he was no match for fifty years of full time nursing. She plunged the needle through the tail of his lab coat right into his expensively exercised left cheek.

"Please, call...my wife," the Doctor collapsed sleepily, "tell her the..."

"There you go, dear," she smiled as he slid to the floor, "we'll have a look at you later. Perhaps in three weeks. Should we send him to Ward Six?" she asked Carl.

"I don't know," Carl shrugged sleepily his stomach growling like a garbage disposal.

"My, Mr. Hillsdale," said Anderson, "what a noise. We'd better get you fed. Hmm, unfortunately, the County shut down the cafeteria yesterday. Another outbreak of salmonella. We could order out. Have you got any cash?" Carl shook his head. "Ah, I have an idea," she said clearly inspired. Bending down creakily, she rummaged under the bed and emerged with the good doctor's credit card.

.

When the food arrived, Anderson returned with some other ancient and overworked nurses and they all sipped champagne and nibbled desserts as Carl made his way through a huge steak.

"Thelma," old Nurse Anderson cackled as she emerged from under the bed dangling a four thousand dollar handmade Italian watch, "wouldn't this help pay for a year at your son's community college?"

"Why, thank you,dear," Thelma beamed toothlessly. They all drank a toast to the good doctor. Carl burped.

"Are you feeling a little better, sweetie?" Anderson asked him solicitously. Carl nodded. "I'm so glad. Well, girls, this certainly does remind me of the old days. I haven't had good champagne like this since I was a sweet young thing and the Doctors were all hot for my tail. Oh, yes, it was great while it lasted. The champagne, the all night parties, the orgies we used to have on the ward. But," she sighed with nostalgia, "a nurse gets a little older and they drop her for the new nursing babe on the floor. Still, it was fun for a time." She took another long drink. Carl fell out of the bed.

"Where you going?"

"Got to pee," he grinned.

"Well, then help yourself," Anderson waved him on as she helped herself to another long drink. Carl didn't take long, but he came back with a worried expression on his face.

"What's wrong, dear?"

"My pee's all red," he said sinking slowly to the floor.

Since the doctors had all gone home hours ago, Anderson quickly organized an operation. Clearly, Carl was injured internally.

"Ready girls?" Anderson asked a group of seniors gathered around the operating table.

"Get to it, Anderson," a large nurse named Dorothy groused. "I've got fifteen more patients to deal with before the shift change."

"Let's move it then," Anderson smiled beneath her surgical mask flashing a small, sharp knife. She opened Carl up like a sardine can.

Fifteen minutes later Anderson was sewing him back up. She'd found the problem, a goodly bit of internal bleeding from a ruptured spleen. She also managed to retrieve several unusual items from his digestive tract.

"He certainly has an interesting appetite," Nurse Dorthy commented picking out a corroded miniature toy car.

"I'd like to know how that man could swallow this much hardware and not perforate his intestines," Hilda asked her peers. There were enough screws, nails, nuts, and bolts lying on the tray to put together a screen door.

"Time's a wasting, ladies," Anderson said putting in the last stitch. "Say, I've got a fairly useless Doctor lying under the bed. What say we switch Cherrypitt's hands with his feet?"

"Now, Louise," an ancient nurse admonished Anderson, "you know we're far too busy to engage in such pranks."

"Oh, pshaw," Anderson said pushing Carl out of the room, "you're all getting boring in your old age."

"What I'd like to know," Dorothy huffed, "is why you dragged us all down here when you had a Doctor on the floor?"

"He's on the floor all right," Anderson cackled. "Besides, I wouldn't let that butcher treat on pimple on a pig's butt. He's killed three of my patients and that's just the last month."

"That's nothing," Dorothy sniffed adjusting her walker. "We had a Doctor on our floor who was so drunk he accidentally turned off the main breaker for the entire ward. Seven people hooked to respirators died in one night."

"Now, now," Hilda admonished all of them with a smile of her broad, wrinkled face, "we could be here an entire month trying to one-up each other with Doctor stories. Don't we have work to do?"

"Thanks, dears," Nurse Anderson waved as the old nurses scattered slowly. Leaning heavily on Carl's gurney, she pushed him into recovery.

Carl awoke in the middle of the night. Someone was screaming down the hall. Outside, rain spattered against the dust-streaked window. He felt in pain and alone. A rat pitter-pattered across the cracked and dully gleaming tile and disappeared under his bed. "Ow," cried Cherrypit thrashing around under the bed. The rat squeaked angrily. Hysterically, Cherrypit clawed himself to his feet.

"Hey, Doc," Carl said in a friendly voice.

"Jesus!" Cherrypit jumped a good foot. "They had the nerve to put me in a double room? My god, my credit rating must be completely shot." He felt anxiously for his wallet. "Shit, I knew it, they took the credit cards. Now what have I got? A wife who sleeps with my boss, a drug habit, a million dollar mortgage, and no credit?" He stopped staring blindly at Carl confronting the awful realities of his existence. "Face it, Cherrypit, you knew the real money was in commodities speculation but you wanted the social prestige. Shit," he said in deep despair, "my life is completely fucked. What's the point of going on?" He yanked the dirty windows open, stepped out on the sill and jumped.

"Hey, Doc?" Carl cried out after several minutes. "I'm feeling sort of a little hungry. Could you help me get something to eat?" There was no reply but the rain spattering the open window sill. Carl got up in some pain. "Hello? Anyone there? Hmm, wonder where he went? I bet he's gone to get some doughnuts." Carl stepped out on the ledge.

"There's another one," Patrolmen Shenkler elbowed his partner. They'd both been sitting in their police cruiser having a harmless snooze when Cherrypit landed on their hood.

"It's like rats jumping off a sinking ship," whispered his partner. She drew a bead on Carl with her special SWAT sniper's rifle.

"What the hell are you doing?" Shenkler smacked her.

"Hey, I'm just trying to protect myself. Two more feet and that last guy would have landed on the roof. Besides, suicide is illegal last I heard, and we're in the business of preventing crime."

"What a Sicko," Shenkler said shaking his head as he watched Carl limp along the ledge through his special infrared binoculars.

"Hey, I was cleared of all charges by the special inquiry."

"I was talking about the guy on the ledge, not you this time." Shenkler hissed. "So who's gonna talk him down?"

"Talk him down?" Foster whined. "That could take hours. We got a meal break coming up."

"Yeah, that's right," Shenkler said with some concern. "Why don't we just take off?"

"We can't take off. You already called it in, Fathead."

"Yeah, that's right. But I only mentioned the first guy."

"So how's it gonna look if a second guy kisses the pavement almost immediately after? It's gonna look like we're sleeping."

"We were. They know that," Shenkler protested. Foster sighed.

"I can see why you're never going to make detective."

"At least I'm not trigger happy."

'The public likes trigger happy. Watched any cop shows lately? If they don't gun down at least one guy per major character on each episode, ratings drop. I pay attention to these things. I'm ambitious. I don't want to be in Patrol all my life."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Shenkler said with a disgusted expression on his face. "You want to be the county's first woman dogcatcher or some crap."

"Hey," Foster said clicking on her public address system and a four hundred thousand watt floodlight, "you there on the ledge!"

"Huh?" Carl cried blinded.

"Freeze, punk!" Foster boomed. "We know what you're up to. One false move and we'll plug you like Swiss cheese."

"Cheese?" Carl said looking interested.

"Get up there and grab him, Shenkler," Foster barked sighting Carl in with her rifle. "I'll keep the perp under control."

"Just don't shoot him," Shenkler insisted hustling out of the car. "I hate that goddamned paperwork." Carl scratched his nose. Foster fired a warning shot that shattered the bricks above his head.

"Jeez," Carl cried out really scared.

"I told you not to move, Scumbag," Foster barked through her bullhorn. "You think we're playing games?"

"No," Carl squeaked.

"Now stand perfectly still. You behave yourself, you get a doughnut!" Carl froze.

"What's the problem, Officer?" asked the Chief of Hospital Security as Shenkler waddled gasping into his office.

"We got a suicide upstairs."

"So what's the rush if he's dead?" the Chief smiled. "Have a doughnut. Relax "

"He's not a suicide yet," Shenkler said breathing heavily as he bit into a maple bar. "He's standing up there on the ledge."

"What?!" exclaimed the Chief his face excited. "We got ourselves a code, uh... " he thumbed through his manual quickly, "a code 13?"

"Yeah, could you go up there and grab him for me?" Shenkler asked helping himself to some coffee. "I got to get a head start on his paperwork."

"No sweat, buddy," grinned the Chief. "You hear that boys? Code 13. Let's hustle." Whistles blew. Shots were fired. Patients and personnel were knocked aside as heavily armed guards stormed upstairs. Outside, Foster attempted to administer a little spiritual solace by reciting to Carl passages memorized from the Bible about all the terrible things God had done to people to express his everlasting love.

"And lo and behold, the spirit of the prophet said unto Walforth, go out into the market and spit a crow. Would you like me to give you my personal spin on his particular passage? We discussed it in bible school." she inquired of Carl. Carl nodded ever so slightly.

"Banker, Baker, you take the side room. Tailor, you go above," said the Chief. "Cook, you and Carpenter take the net. You all know the drill, squeeze the perp from both sides and get him to leap."

"Yes, sir," the men responded with smart salutes.

"Hey, who the hell are you?" Foster demanded through her bullhorn as guards appeared flanking Carl from all sides.

"Don't worry," the Chief assured her through his own bullhorn. "The prisoner will be secured and handed over to the proper authorities."

"All right then," said Foster feeling slightly let down.

"All right you, jump!" the Chief told Carl.

"But she said she'd shoot," Carl protested.

"I'll shoot you if you don't," the Chief snarled drawing a pearl handled, stainless steel .45 automatic.

Carl paused. What the heck was he going to do? Suddenly, the 400,000 floodlight went dim because it had sucked all the juice out of the cruiser's battery.;

"Hey, I can't see?" the Chief said in some surprise

"Put your hands up!" someone cried. Shots were fired, and the security guard to Carl's left toppled from the open window. More shots, screams; howls of surrender. Carl crawled quickly down from the ledge and stepped through an open window.

"Are you a nurse?" a patient asked sitting up in her bed.

"Why, can I get you anything?" Carl asked helpfully.

"What will it cost me?" her voice quavered.

"Nothing, I don't think" Carl shrugged in the faint light of the moon.

"Are you sure? Because the people at admissions informed me that in order to cut costs and increase profits, every little thing that was done for me had to be recorded and billed. I thought, you know, that meant medicines and equipment, but even if I ask for help to get to the bathroom, why it's an extra fee."

"You don't need help to get to the bathroom, do you?" Carl asked with some anxiety.

"Well, no, but..."

"Good," he exclaimed with relief.

"I'd just like my pillow plumped."

Carl plumped up her pillow. "That all?"

"Are you sure this isn't going to cost me anything?" the old woman wondered.

"Swear," Carl promised.

"Thank you so much," she smiled. Carl left with a little wave. There was still quite a ruckus down the hall to his right so he went the other way.

Carl wandered the ghostly halls carefully. Here and there medical personnel were gathered in small groups bickering over card games or the contents of drug cabinets. Carl smiled, waved, and moved on.

"Watch where you're going!" a rushed orderly barked as he rushed a gurney around the corner and down the hall. Carl was knocked on his butt.

"What's the big rush?" he called.

"Fresh organs!" the orderly shouted. "Cash money. Get your hands washed and get to work."

"What the heck," Carl shrugged limping after the gurney. He had nothing else to do.

"Dress," the orderly ordered throwing Carl a bundle of clothes. "The Doctor runs a tight ship. You a patient?" Carl nodded. "Thought so. We get lots of patients working part time to pay off their bills. 'Course this guy was a patient too. Once."

"Yeah?" Carl asked looking over the dead body as the orderly sharpened his knife.

"Yeah, the surgeon botched up a simple bowel resection. Or so he says," the orderly smiled with a cynical smirk. "Or is it just a coincidence that the price of a healthy human adult heart just about went through the roof today on the Organ Exchange."

"So what are you gonna do to him?" Carl asked.

"It's pretty easy. Watch carefully so you can do the next one. We run a production shop around here. First thing is lay him open."

"Wow," said Carl as he gazed at the corpse in front of him now flayed open like a salmon. Funny how a person's guts can look so much like a dog's.

"The main thing is speed," the orderly explained making a few more swift cuts. "You want to get these babies out and on dry ice really quick; the fresher the better."

"So is that the guy's heart?" Carl asked as a steaming red organ was lifted from the chest cavity.

"You got it," the orderly said matter-of-factly. "That baby's worth more than I make in a year. Ever thought of selling a kidney? You could buy a new car."

"Yeah?"

"Hell yes," the orderly said working quickly to excise the liver. "I got myself a Trans Am for one of mine. It's a beaut, and does it move."

"Wow," Carl said in wonder.

"Nice, huh?" his partner said now lifting out the liver. "Now that's worth a nice pile. I'd sell mine but I only have one, but I am considering half a lung."

"You can sell your lung?"

"Hey, you can sell anything these days. Not happy with your wife, want to shack up with the new secretary?" He leaned over leering. "Have her in for a little operation. Not only is she no longer a problem but you've got yourself money for a new sailboat or a weekend at Vegas. I'm not kidding. One of the doctors got rid of his second wife that way. You should see his new nurse. Va, va voom."

"All right get your hands up!" the Chief shouted bursting into the room. He was preceded by a snarling dog.

"Hey, Chief, what's the problem?" the orderly asked throwing the rabid pit bull a tasty warm treat.

"This guy's under arrest for trying to commit suicide."

"That so?" he said regarding Carl with interest. "Say, buddy, since you don't want it, how about giving me a crack?"

"Huh?" Carl asked as the Chief grabbed him.

"Come on, Chief," the orderly whined, "what the heck's the good of putting him in prison? Just another burden to us taxpaying citizens."

"Look," said the Chief as he twisted Carl's arm behind him with his nightstick. "I got sixteen angry, wounded cops out there waiting for this guy. You want to cut them all in on the deal?"

"Sixteen? There goes our profit margin. Take him away." Carl was drug into the hall.

Carl was unconscious again and bleeding internally by the time he was kicked into the black van. It was off to the prison farm.

"You know, Mr. Hillsdale?" Peg repeated feeling somewhat concerned.

"Hillsdale?" the ancient Thelma answered her voice wavering. "But isn't he dead?"

"No, not that Hillsdale, the one who replaced him. You remember," Peg said insistently. Thelma scrunched up her old wrinkled face thinking hard.

"The one who replaced him? Oh, I remember. You're that nice truck driver. I wish I were a truck driver," she cackled. "Do you enjoy squashing little cars like bugs?" she asked peering over her tri-focal glasses. "What about a Mercedes? You ever squash a Mercedes like the kind most doctors drive?"

"Actually, ma'am, I've got a perfect safety record. I'm really concerned about my friend."

"Oh, your friend," she said consulting the files. "I remember him. He was a nice young man. Nurse Anderson had to sew him up a bit, but he was recovering nicely until, let's see, he was arrested."

"Arrested?!" Peg's eyes widened.

"Yes, he was definitely arrested. I understand he was standing on a ledge or something and several of our security guards were wounded. If you were to ask me, there was probably alcohol involved, but not with your friend, the guards. You can probably find him at the prison farm."

"Can you tell me where this prison farm is?" Peg asked.

"Why?" Thelma asked.

"Well, I want to see him. See what happened."

"Oh, you don't want to go there, dear," she said with a sudden expression of concern. "They don't like visitors. Usually they arrest them too."

Sylvia was hoeing an immense pumpkin patch. She looked up to see Carl walking towards her. Where his head should have been there was a jack-o-lantern.

"Carl, will you stop playing and get to work?" He tripped. The jack-o-lantern shattered into pieces. She woke up.

"Get up," the brutal voice snarled. Carl stumbled up in the blazing sun as a whip lashed his burning back. In the distance, shots were fired. Men screamed. Carl fell again. A black Jeep Cherokee with mirrored glass yanked to a sudden stop. Its window whirred open.

"What's the matter with this one?" Warden Winer asked.

"Lazy," Barcus spat giving Carl a kick in the stomach. Carl gasped and fainted.

"Looks pretty far gone to me," the Warden surmised. "Toss him in a ditch for the coyotes."

"What about his paperwork?" Barcus wanted to know.

"Lose it." The electric window whirred shut.

"Goddamn you," Barcus spat again kicking Carl again. "Now I got to drag you to the ditch. Normally, I'd shoot you first but just because you pissed me off, I'm gonna let the coyotes eat your ass alive."

Peg watched from a low rise. Just within the dusty barbed wired fields she recognized Carl by his carroty curls. Barcus had just kicked Carl a third time and slashed him with his whip when she totally lost her temper.

The dozing guard at the gate never knew what hit him as Peg and her rig came crashing through. Guards screamed running for their lives as exhausted prisoners lifted their eyes in hope. Peg blasted across the fields towards Barcus who ran from the onrushing whirlwind of dust and metal in horror. Prisoners snatched for their guards' weapons. Shots were fired. Men screamed.

"You okay?" Peg asked leaping from the truck to Carl's side.

"Don't kill me," Barcus wept down on his knees. Peg resisted the urge to pop him with a tire iron and lifted Carl into the cab. She drove out the way she came.

The instant Peg crashed through the gate, Warden Winer's jeep raced for his personal security bunker. Leaving the driver to stand guard outside, Winer entered, barred the door, tripped the automatic mining device, and switched on the closed circuit televisions. Just as he expected, the prisoners were wreaking vengeance on the guards. He watched fascinated with the carnage as he placed a call to Washington DC.

"U.S. Dept. of Prisons, Uprising Central," a taped bland voice said in a monotone. "All of our agents are busy. If you are calling from a touch tone phone, select one for escapes, two for cell block uprisings, and three for a major faculty meltdown. Due to the escalating breakdown of our rapidly expanding prison system, we are extremely busy, and would appreciate your patience."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Warden Winer said unable to tear his eyes from the screen. Prisoners had grabbed Barcus, doused him in barbeque sauce and pegged him out for the coyotes that were waiting close by. Winer checked to make sure he was getting it all on tape. Someone was pounding on the triple steel armored door. He flipped on the outside camera.

"Let me in," begged his second in command, a tall weaselly looking fellow with a shaved head.

"Can't do it, Pilfred," Winer said over the intercom. "Door's shut and sealed."

"Come on, Winer," Pilfred begged. "I've got sixty thousand dollars in my savings account, it's all yours."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Winer turning off the sound. "I've heard that song before." He made a note to have Pilfred's account seized with a court order the minute he got out of here.

"Can I help you?" a voice said over the speaker phone about fifteen minutes later.

"Uh, yeah," Winer said trying to swallow a last bit of micro-waved fried chicken. "We got a level three disturbance in Security Containment unit 12, sub-sector fourteen, region eight."

"Would that be the region eight in security zone fifty six?"

"Uh, yes," Winer cleared his throat.

"We can have a fighter squadron dispatched from Cyco Air Force base in 3.8 minutes. Will you be needing additional assistance?"

"No, sounds good," Winder responded joking. "Just make sure they don't drop a missile on my bunker."

"Your bunker is quite secure for this level of attack. You have no reason to worry. An agency audit will be conducted in ten hours. Be sure you have filed your reports. This communication is terminated."

"Uh, thanks," Winer said taking another bite of chicken. He popped open a beer.

Exactly ten hours later, three black Skigorsky passenger copters with mirrored glass landed heavily to a halt about a mile outside the smoking prison grounds.

"Hey," complained agents from a variety of federal agencies. "you mean we got to walk from here?"

"That as far as I go," the lead pilot announced over his microphone. "These babies cost 86 million bucks a copy and we can't take a chance on unexploded ordinance."

"Yeah, but shit on us, right?" complained an agent from the BLM.

"Hey, we're just a bunch of low paid government grunts," agreed a field service representative from WAT.

"You got that straight," rejoined a level six inspector for the CPY.

"Okay!" a regional supervisor on loan from Region 45 addressed the assembled crowd of hot sweating men in damp white shirts and dark suits. "Let's see if we can beat the record on Sector Seven's auditing squad and have this baby done in 2.6 hours."

"Fuck you," a uniformed officer from the ILF giggled under his beery breath. He was fingering a live grenade he carried for good luck and was just itching for the chance to frag anyone with a better looking wife, a bigger house, or slightly more expensive car.

"Spread out and get busy!" the regional supervisor snapped as his aides set up his portable walnut desk and state of the art communications system.

Grumbling agents from the CLN, IJP, WOD, SPC, and a myriad of related agencies, divisions, sectors, squads, and one joint representative of the three national television news programs scattered over the smoldering wreck of the prison. Here and there unidentifiable charred bodies were found which were tagged, de-tagged, and drug into open pits by gangs of unemployed locals.

"Where's the warden's bunker?" a senior NLI official asked a BLC GS/12.

"According to our maps it should be right here," the staffer from the TLC remarked pointing into a blasted open pit lined by the remains of three foot concrete walls.

"Looks like they scored a direct hit," the field engineer from the GOP said making a careful note.

"Are you saying the Air Force made a mistake in its ordinance strength?" an officer from the BVD snapped.

"Of course not," the field engineer replied hastily launching into a rousing whistle of "God Bless America." Someone in the crowd snickered.

"Who snickered!" BVD shouted. All eyes turned accusingly towards the only black face in the group, a young clerk from the PLF recently graduated from Harvard with honors with a PhD in Advanced Econometric Systems Modeling who had clearly been hired for a job that should have gone to a more qualified white man.

"What's your problem?" the young clerk asked interrupting his dictation. No one said anything.

"Troops, troops," the regional supervisor's third assistant junior clerk called out over a megaphone, "the supervisor instructs me to instruct you to get to work."

Everyone scattered, that is, everyone except Joe Frydegg, special agent FBI, who stared thoughtfully into the deep hole where the warden's bunker had been. The damned Air Force had bombed all the bathrooms and he really had to take a shit.

"Frydegg!" the second senior assistant to the regional supervisor bellowed through his megaphone, "the regional supervisor requires your presence."

"Goddammit," Frydegg grumbled trotting off. He found the Supervisor watching congressional hearings on a portable 27 inch color television. The camera was focused on two aged Republican senators who both seemed to be arguing in their sleep.

"Well, Agent, uh..." the Supervisor began as his fourth assistant whispered in his ear,"...uh, Frydegg."

"Yes, sir?"

"What have you concluded?"

"Concluded?" Frydegg asked. He hadn't concluded a whole heck of a lot since arriving except he was ready to drop significant turd.

"Good," smiled the Supervisor showing off years of expensive dental work. "Now," he began coughing slightly for emphasis, "I have been in communication with the higher ups and they have decided that this is the work of..." and he paused dramatically looking carefully from left to right as did his coterie of assistants and armed guards, but then his face suddenly acquired a blank expression, "...of who?" the Supervisor inquired of his first assistant. The assistant whispered in his ear. "Oh, yes, the Libyans," the supervisor continued.

"Libyans?" Frydegg repeated stupidly distracted by the need to expel gas.

"Yes, you have heard of Libyans, I assume," the Supervisor asked coolly. His assistants tittered in response. Frydegg's face grew hot.

"Well, yeah, sure," Frydegg said quickly. "Aren't they an Enemy of the Week at least twice a year?"

"Yes, I believe that's correct," the Supervisor said uncertainly. His fifth assistant whispered in his ear. "Yes, it is most certainly correct."

"So what do they have to do with this?" Frydegg said with a wave of his hand that took in the devastated prison farm. The Supervisor looked amused and superior. His assistants tittered.

"Frydegg, Frydegg, Frydegg," the Supervisor sighed with his superior smile, "don't question the higher ups. It's all political. You know, tied in with the economy, current interest rates, et cetera, et cetera. It has been decided that the Libyans are responsible and you are assigned to apprehend them. This order has come down from the highest levels, and Frydegg..," he added with an extremely cold and jaundiced eye, "I suggest you do not disappoint us. There would be consequences, I'm sure." Frydegg was so disconcerted at this that he farted. There was complete silence as the fifth assistant held a hankie to the Supervisor's nose.

"Well?" the second assistant asked impatiently.

"Geez, sir," Frydegg said in a small, wheedling voice, "I'd love to get out there and grab those Libyans, but its six months until I retire and I'm not sure I have the time, you know, what with immediate capture and all the paperwork. Couldn't you assign a younger agent?'

"Are you saying you can't do your job?" the third assistant asked icily his fingers poised to call Frydegg's FBI boss.

"No, no, of course I'm not saying that. Couldn't get a better man. But these things take time. You wouldn't want me retiring before I could finish the job. Bring in a new guy, inefficient and all that."

"That's no problem," the Supervisor smiled fondly. "Until you find the Libyans, you won't be allowed to retire."

"Oh, jeez," croaked Frydegg his knees starting to give way underneath him. "But..."

"Of course you can refuse the assignment, we can have you terminated for insubordination," the Supervisor smiled as the third assistant slid an automatic pistol over the inlaid mother of pearl surface of the desk, "and save the government a pension."

Frydegg stared weakly at the government issued automatic. He was unmarried, an alcoholic; for the most part, life was shit. Why not blow his brains out in a nearby ditch and end his miserably monotonous existence? Besides, what was the pension worth anyway? After a long series of budget cuts, he'd be lucky to get one hundred and thirteen dollars a week—before taxes.

"All right, I'll do it," he said in a small voice.

"Really?" the Supervisor sat up pleased. "That's excellent, Frydegg. But you sure you don't want to use the gun? You'll be doing your bit to ease the national debt. I know your pension doesn't seem like much but every little bit helps."

"No," Frydegg said doggedly determined to get that pension no matter what, "I'll find the Libyans--somewhere."

"Is that so," the fifth assistant asked pugnaciously.

"Yeah, that's so," Frydegg glared back. "You want Libyans, you'll get your Libyans or I'm not Frydegg."

"That's the spirit, Frydegg," the Supervisor said with a cheery smile. He turned back to the stirring Congressional debate now in progress as the seventh assistant to the Supervisor took Frydegg aside.

"Here is your official assignment and travel orders," he said handing over a thirty pound stack of paper.

"Where do I pick up my car?" Frydegg asked. If he hurried, he could drive to the nearest shitter before he crapped his drawers.

"Car?" the assistant asked. "The Agency has no funding for a car."

"Then how do you expect me to find Libyans?" Frydegg asked.

"Finding Libyans is not my problem," the assistant responded with an indignant expression. "You're the agent with the FBI."

"But I need money, expenses," Frydegg responded equally indignant. "I haven't even seen a paycheck since before Christmas. Accounting problem they keep telling me. Do you know I'm living on the street?"

"Well living in my great aunt's crawl cellar with a wife and three kids is certainly no picnic for me," the seventh assistant hissed.

"The least you could do is give me a bicycle," Fryegg whined pathetically. "And four dollars a day for meals?"

"My god, I can't believe I'm hearing this," the seventh assistant said throwing up his hands. "You're an agent of the federal government, you have a gun. Do I have to spell it out?"

"Huh?"

"Hello, Frydegg, anybody home? Don't you ever talk to your little agent FBI friends? My god, man, my wife was at the grocery store last week when an entire squad of treasury agents raided the place. They claimed they were looking for illegal drugs and alcohol, but they left the meat counter stripped bare. Hey," he leaned over with a mocking smile, "I threaten the owner of our local gas station with a tax investigation and I'm not even with the IRS. I get two fill-ups free a week plus the bi-yearly oil change. I kid you not."

"Yeah, right," Joe whined. With his luck, the gas station owner would have a sub machine gun. He reluctantly picked up his assignment.

"Jesus, it's heavier than the fucking New York phone book."

"Don't chuck it, Frydegg," he was advised. "They pay good money for recycled paper."

"Yeah?"

"Man," said the agent in a mixture of contempt and pity, "don't you know anything?"

"Hey, I know fucking plenty," Frydegg glared attempting to execute a smart pivot on his heel and managing to trip himself. He limped off amid a mild chorus of mean spirited laughter. "Man," he said pleased he wasn't the only one not getting his paycheck. No wonder the other agents always wanted in on the drug busts, the white collar crime; the savings and loan scandals. They were taking something on the side! He shook his head. Typical, none of those bastards ever told him anything. Someday, they'd get theirs.

Frydegg stood surveying the vast wreckage of the prison as he squinted into the glaring sun. Somewhere there ought to be a place to take a dump. Walking through what remained of the prison's infirmary, he spotted a comfortable looking little bomb crater. Looking quickly to the left and right, he clambered in.

"Ah," he said feeling sweet relief as heavy hot turds hit the torn earth creating little puffs of dust. He pulled out his hand-held tape recorder figuring this was as good a time as any to make his first report.

"This is Special Agent Joe Frydegg reporting on the alleged—no scratch alleged—the suspected—no scratch suspected—the, uh, proven without a doubt Libyan terrorist attack on the prison in uh, shit, some goddamned godforsaken place. Anyway, clearly this raid was carried out by Libyans trained in Soviet, no shit can't use Soviet, that's a dead dog we can't kick, uh, I know, uh, Cuban, yeah, Cuban terrorist training camps. Hey, we're rolling now. Okay, so we got Libyans trained by Cubans assisted by uh, nah, let's scratch the, oh, that feels good," he sighed as another hot turd hit the dust, "no, scratch that, I mean, shit, what's the point," he said shoving the thing back in his pocket. The batteries had gone dead six months ago and nobody ever read his reports anyway.

"Hey, Frydegg," an investigator from the NIA called out from the edge of the crater, "you gonna join us for lunch?"

"Yeah, be right there," Frydegg blustered hunching a little lower.

"Whatcha doing down there?" he asked joined by a team of researchers from the GSA.

"Collecting evidence," Frydegg said.

"Yeah, well it sure stinks. You coming or not?"

"Uh," he paused his stomach growling. He hadn't eaten since yesterday. "I'm really not paying, I mean, hungry."

"Don't worry about it," a cute female senior analyst from the TOQ smiled pleasantly. "The bill's on Uncle Sam."

"Be right there," Frydegg insisted hoping his trench coat had adequately hid his exposed rear end.

"By the way," she added helpfully from the edge of the crater, "did you know your trousers had fallen down?"

"No," Frydegg said his face a bright beet red, "you're kidding? These damned agency issue clothes."

"Just thought you'd like to know," she smiled in a friendly manner as her arm was taken by a big burly Aryan looking stud from the PLI.

"Shit," Frydegg cursed slipping in his own crap as he scrambled up out of the hole.

Ma Wunker hadn't seen this much business since the factory had closed. Although she had a darned difficult time keeping up with all the orders for steak, she was beginning to think they might make enough today to catch up on their rent. A smile, long absent from her tired face, returned. Even her son grinned happily while wiping tables and carrying away stacks of dishes. As small groups of government employees got up wiping their greasy faces, they pointed to Frydegg who was bent over greedily gobbling hamburgers, hot dogs, two orders of fried chicken, a fruit salad and three ice cream sundaes. Finally finishing with a long burp he looked up. The cafe was empty except for a smiling Ma Wunker and her grinning son. Outside in the parking lot, the copter was just starting up.

"Oops, I guess I better get going," Frydegg said grabbing a handful of saltines from the cracker basket.

"Yes, and we sure do thank you," Ma smiled getting between Frydegg and the door. "We prepared your bill."

"My bill?" Frydegg stammered nervously looking around once more. "Uh, send it to Uncle Sam."

"Uncle Sam?" asked her son reaching under the counter.

"Yeah, they told me it was on Uncle Sam."

"Uncle Sam, my eye, I want cash money now," Ma said no longer smiling.

"Yeah, well you're barking up the wrong tree, Lady. I haven't even seen a paycheck since Christmas."

"You're broke and you sat here stuffed yourself like a pig with our food?" Ma Wunker asked amazed as her son drew out from under the greasy counter a well-used baseball bat.

"They told me..." Frydegg started to say. "Shit," he slapped the side of his head, "those fuckers did it again."

"Pay up!" Ma's son ordered smacking the bat on his palm.

"Okay, okay," Frydegg said pretending he was looking for his wallet. He drew out his rusty old service revolver. It hadn't been fired in quite some time. Who could afford to? What with budget cuts, agents were expected to buy their own ammunition. Frydegg wasn't even sure it was loaded.

"Okay, stand back," he said in his best hard-ass FBI voice.

"There's no way I'm moving away from this door," Ma Wunker said in an even harder voice. "You don't pay that bill, we're busted, it's as simple as that."

"I'm warning you, I'll shoot," Frydegg said.

"You go ahead," the old woman said advancing. Her son advanced too. Frydegg quickly feinted to the right, then left, then hotfooted it out the back. Wunker Jr. followed him as Ma grabbed the family shotgun. Shorts were fired just as Joe grabbed the landing gear of the departing copter

"Hey, what the hell's going on?" the copter's captain started from his nap as shotgun pellets peppered the bullet-proof glass.

"Some yokel's shooting at us, sir," his co-pilot informed him.

"Yeah, well send the son-of-a-bitch a little present," the captain said leaning back again in his chair. The copilot fired off an ATM and that was certainly the end of both Ma and her business problems.

"What do you make of this, Frydegg?" the regional supervisor asked as Joe joined a silent knot of onlookers back at the remains of the prison camp. The supervisor was pointing down into the dust.

"Dirt?" Frydegg asked.

"No, you idiot," the supervisor said scornfully with a nod to his first, second, third, and fourth assistants.

"These are fresh tractor trailer tracks," intoned the first.

"There is no record of a tractor trailer having entered the prison grounds," intoned the second holding up the somewhat charred records kept by the gatekeeper.

"If there is no record of a tractor trailer, yet obviously a tractor trailer has entered the grounds, what do you make of it?" postulated the third. Joe thought for a moment and looked carefully around. Most of the surrounding faces were noncommittal. Some were amused. One or two looked mildly psychotic but that would be typical for such a group.

"It was those fucking Libyans," Joe said desperate to say something. Judging from the cynical yet approving smile of his supervisor, it was clear Joe had invented the right answer.

"Libyans, Libyans, Libyans," chanted the supervisor as all the bureaucrats joined in.

In minutes, half-naked hopping white people emitting bloodcurdling howls were all dancing and howling for the blood of Libyans as they ran around a blazing bonfire in the middle of the desert. Joe sat back in the light of the fire sipping a cold beer. Life wasn't bad at all when you pushed the right buttons. The supervisor had even slipped him a cigar. Joe leaned back and closed his eyes

.

Joe awoke to a dead fire, silence, and a litter of empty beer cans. The entire investigation team had left. Stumbling to his feet, he promptly tripped. Some wiseacre had tied his shoelaces together. Frydegg cursed rubbing an aching knee. He was stuck in the middle of nowhere with approximately two dollars in change, no car, and a gun that didn't work, all pretty much typical agency working conditions. Sighing, he followed the truck tire tracks through the gaping hole in the tangle of razor wire and churned steel and out into the desert. "Shit," he cursed and trudged on.

THIRTEEN
Peg drove for days while Carl lay quietly in the back. At times he moaned begging for Korny Kurls. She didn't dare take him to a hospital—not after his last experience. She drove, moving loads, crisscrossing America. She picked up loads of dismantled factories to be shipped overseas. She moved thousands of gallons of beer, potato chips, electronic game machines. For an entire week, she delivered government commodity cheese. Once, she even delivered a load of Korny Kurls—one box even accidentally falling off the truck's gate. Which was a blessing really, because the cost of keeping Carl in Korny Kurls was eating into her meager pay.

They drove and drove through vast stretches of America empty of people. Gigantic corporate farms dotted with giant computer operated machines producing millions of tons of food for export but small towns and houses destitute of people were only sagging silhouettes in the distance. She drove for miles through rusted inner cities where factory buildings stood, open, gutted and empty. People only gathered at the half shuttered shopping malls or in loose little silent knots in the slums.

Carl got better faster than he should have. One day he was moaning ready to die, and the next, he was pestering her to let him fix the truck. Clearly it was high time for him to get home to his wife.

"So where do you think she is?" Peg asked him.

"Who?" Carl asked munching a Korny Kurl.

"Syl," Peg responded.

"My wife?" Carl asked.

"Yeah, you know, Sylvia."

"Ol' Man Braible's I'm guessing," said Carl with a shrug.

"So where's that?"

"Durned if I know," Carl admitted.

"Well, that's a big help," Peg said in a low voice. There was silence except for a slight "crunch, crunch, crunch."

"Peg?" Carl asked.

"Yeah?" Peg said not taking her eyes from the road.

"I'm hungry. Could we stop and get a doughnut? Maybe a medium coke?"

"Yeah, I guess," Peg said wearily thinking it was probably time for her break. "I'll stop at the next place."

Frydegg furtively entered the truck stop cafe stopping quickly at a table not yet cleared. Quickly he stuffed a few crusts of toast and the remains of a cold runny egg into his pocket and slurped down the rest of the half-drunk milk after picking out the cigarette butt. He had just pocketed the tip and was nonchalantly walking towards the counter when the waitress bustled in.

"Be right with you," Gale called out cheerily as she started clearing dishes from the dirty table. She stopped, puzzled. "Now that's funny. I could've sworn he left a buck." Joe turned around on his stool with a helpful expression.

"There was a black kid just exiting as I came in," he smiled.

"A black kid?" the waitress said looking even more puzzled. "We don't see many blacks out here."

"Maybe he was Indian," Joe said.

"No Indians I know of."

"Hispanic?"

"Mister, we're out here on the freeway miles from any city. How would some kid get here—on his bike?"

"How the hell should I know?" Frydegg groused swinging back to face the front. "Get me some coffee and step on it."

"Yes, sir," the waitress said taking a look out at the parking lot. Where was this guy's car?

"Got any sugar?" Joe asked as she poured him his coffee.

"Yes, sir," she said handing him the bowl. Joe tore open six packets and dumped them in.

"Cream?"

"Right here," Gale said watching him with narrowed eyes as he dumped in so much non-dairy creamer it was slopping over the sides.

"Got a straw?"

"Sure thing," she said watching him curiously as he stirred the coffee, creamer, and sugar into something resembling mud soup.

"Shit," said Joe unable to slurp the thick liquid up the straw. "Got a spoon?"

"Whatever," said the waitress slapping a soup spoon on the counter. She was pretty sure there'd be no tip from this guy.

"So what are you staring at?" he asked malevolently feeling her eyes on him.

"Nothing," she said turning around. Joe slipped a crust of toast out of his pocket towards his mouth.

"Got any Ketchup?" he asked the waitress.

"For what?" she asked turning around with an incredulous look.

"I like a little Ketchup with my coffee if that's all right with you," Joe said self-righteously. "There a law against that?"

"Maybe a law of nature," she said slapping the bottle on the counter grudgingly, "but what do I know?"

"According to our President, that is, the President of the US of A," Joe said plopping some Ketchup into his coffee cup, "this is a vegetable, and I'm a firm believer in a balanced meal."

"Really," said the waitress turning away as so not to have to watch Joe eat which gave him a chance to reach in his pocket for some egg.

"So how much for the coffee?" he asked an hour later after two more refills, twelve bags of sugar, creamer, and the better part of a bottle of Ketchup.

"I don't know," Gale grumbled. "Make it ten bucks."

"Ten bucks!" Joe howled. "For one lousy cup of coffee?"

"And about nine bucks worth of everything else you threw in there," Gale retorted, "plus my tip." Muttering, Joe fished out the dollar bill all covered with egg.

"I want a receipt." Gale stared at the slimy bill. Where had she seen that before, the torn corner, the scrawled phone number, the moustache drawn on George?

"Goddammit, you little son-of-a-bitch, you stole my tip from that other guy," she said angrily reaching under the counter for her bat. Joe whipped out his .38 going into a firing stance.

"Joe Frydegg, FBI." he said but Gale took a swing at him anyway. Joe ran for the door.

"Hey, watch where you're going," a calm, cool, womanly voice said as a hand clenched his wrist in a vice-like grip. Joe was suddenly facing Peg

"He pulled a gun of me and stole my dollar tip," Gale said rushing forward with her bat.

"You don't let that woman near me," Joe said trying to twist himself behind Peg and away from the baseball bat. "I'm a federal agent."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Peg said. "Why don't you give her back the buck and go?"

"I gave her the buck for my coffee," Joe insisted pathetically squirming like a hooked fish and dangerously close to tears. "I don't have any more."

"You sure this is worth it to you?" Peg asked Gale.

"A buck's pretty hard to come by these days," Gale grumbled. "Hell, let the little weasel go."

"I'm sure he'd be willing to do some chores," Peg added still holding firmly on to Joe.

"Would you let something like that in your kitchen?" Gale asked looking slightly ill. Peg released him.

"I'll get you for this, you damned Libyans," Joe cursed under his breath as he tumbled out the door.

From behind the cover of the truck stop's garbage cans, Joe watched Peg drive off. There was something familiar about that truck. Stuffing a bit of cold bacon in his mouth he stepped out into the parking lot to take a look at the rig's tracks.

"Damn," he muttered. It was a match. He ran for the cafe.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Gale cried grabbing for her bat.

"I've got to use the phone."

"The only thing you're getting is the business end of this bat if you don't get the hell out of my cafe."

"You'll pay for this," Joe vowed running down the road after Peg, his trench coat flapping around his legs.

Several hours later, Frydegg trudged wearily into a gas station.

"You got a phone?" he asked the attendant.

"Over there."

"This is official FBI business. Loan me a quarter?" The guy laughed so Joe searched the parking lot for loose change. He found 24 cents.

"Trade me that for a quarter?" Joe asked.

"You'll have to wait for a paying customer so I can open the till." Joe nodded and took a seat. Minutes went by, five, ten, fifteen, twenty. It was obviously a slow day. Joe went outside. He scrawled "Give me twenty five cents" on a piece of cardboard and stood on the side of the highway.

"Just 25 fucking cents, please!" he screamed to the occasional passing car. "Do your patriotic duty." No one did, but some donated the occasional empty beer can. It started raining. A bolt of lightning lit a fire in the brush just behind him. He was wet, cold, and miserable. A typical day in the FBI.

It was past midnight when a van finally passed and stopped about fifty yards away. It was battered, black, with cracked mirrored glass; obviously government surplus. It waited, idling roughly as Joe ran and tapped on the mirrored glass. The side door cracked open slightly. Tattooed arms reached out and yanked him in.

"We're here!" Carl suddenly announced.

"Huh?" Peg asked a little stupidly. The only sleep she'd gotten in the last 72 hours was during a rush hour traffic jam.

"This is it. The Pumpkin Farm. It's right up that lane."

"You sure?" Peg asked bringing the rig to a slow stop.

"Sure, I'm sure. I recognize that tree," Carl smiled. "Once I peed on it. You coming in for a cup of pumpkin coffee?"

"Huh? No, sorry, I'd love to but I got to make that delivery. I promise to stop next time I'm through, okay?" She gave him a big hug.

"I guess," said Carl momentarily disappointed. "Can I have the rest of my Korny Kurls?"

"Go for it," Peg smiled as Carl trotted to the back of the trailer. They waved goodbye.

"Honey, I'm home!" Carl bellowed as he entered the farm's yard. An attack copter screamed out of the midday sun. He ran like hell for the house. Suits, troopers, dogs and cops came streaming out of the house. Clenching his box of Korny Kurls, he ran like hell for the woods.

The dogs chased him right to the edge of the trees but refused to go further. After a bit of discussion and argumentation, Suits, troopers, and cops milled back towards the house as the attack copter circled ominously overhead.

"Psst, Carl, honey, we're up here." Carl looked up into the leaves. Sylvia and Old Man Braible were sitting in a tree.

"What's going on?" he asked climbing up.

"It's the County. They want us to pay taxes. I told them we were broke; we'd pay them after we sold the pumpkins. They got kind of nasty after that. Oh, honey," Syl said giving Carl a big tearful hug, "I am so sorry I yelled at you."

"So does all these cops mean we get to leave?" Carl asked hopefully.

"We're not going anywhere," Sylvia flamed. "Those pumpkins are mine."

Well, the county had its troopers, cops, deputies, sheriff, dogs, and the National Guard, but Sylvia knew her pumpkin patch. Each night she would sneak out to harvest the ripest pumpkins while Carl snatched himself a dog. Pretty soon the dogs got so rattled, they'd refuse to go out at night and only snarled and growled at their handlers.

"Wonder what's up?" one deputy asked stuffing his face with his fifth doughnut.

"Hard to figure," said a trooper polishing off a jelly roll.

"A mystery," opined an officer his mouth full of eclair.

"Wonder what's on TV?" wondered a cop reaching for a maple bar.

A week went by, then two. What dogs weren't disappeared had had to be shot and there were half as many pumpkins in the pumpkin patch as there were before. The sheriff in charge of the operation received a phone call from the county tax assessor on the first morning of the beginning of the third week.

"How many pumpkins are left in that patch?" demanded the Assessor. The Sheriff quickly gulped down his chocolate glazed old fashioned and checked with an assistant.

"Uh, looks like we got a count of five."

Words were exchanged, threats were made, and that night every cop, deputy, and trooper was on patrol around that pumpkin patch while a black National Guard helicopter hovered overhead.

"Ain't nobody's gonna get past this," said a trooper brushing apple fritter crumbs off his flak jacket.

Carl, Sylvia, and old man Braible sitting high in their observation tree watched the whole operation.

"Only five more pumpkins," Sylvia said with a triumphant gleam.

"Sure is a lot of guys out there," Carl said.

"Honey," Old Man Braible said, "don't you think you've got enough?"

"Enough what?" Sylvia responded somewhat pugnaciously.

"Pumpkins. Why, you got enough to load up a whole tractor trailer van."

"Are you telling me I should abandon my very best and biggest babies?" Sylvia said looking at Braible as if he too was with the County.

"I'm just saying, be reasonable. Look at all those troopers, guards, cops, and sheriffs."

"There is no way I'm leaving my prize pumpkins," Sylvia insisted with a fanatic glare. Carl sort of glanced at her sideways. She had got the same way about that killer deer. There was sure to be trouble.

"Carl, I want you to fix that helicopter."

"Why, it's flying around all right, isn't it?"

"Just fix the darned thing the next time it lands or something."

"But what if they catch me and beat me up? I've been beat up plenty these days. It don't feel too good."

"Well, that's just great," Sylvia said eyes flaming. "You'll go out and get yourself beat up while you're having your own fun and all, but you won't take a beating for me."

"Now, honey..." Old Man Braible began, but Sylvia cut him off.

"You just go guard our pumpkin pile, old man, that's all I want from you."

"Okay, okay," said the old man wearily, "then that's just what I'll do."

Wearing twigs, branches, and pumpkin vines all stuck to her head and clothes, Sylvia crawled along the inside of her irrigation ditch to the last of the pumpkins. Nearby paced nervous deputies, cops, and troopers, and every now and then, one of them all buzzed up from sugar and caffeine would take a shot at something, which led to some wild exchanges of nervous gunfire followed by the groans of the dying and wounded.

Sylvia arrived at her first pumpkin just as the helicopter landed for more fuel. While the pilot ran off for his coffee and donuts, Carl modified the fuel line reasoning a shorter one would result in a more efficient use of fuel. Which might of worked just fine except he forgot to reattach one end of the hose. Sylvia had just stuffed her last pumpkin into a long bag when the copter took off. At first it wobbled, then choked; then started spinning out of control off into the woods.

"Oh god," Sylvia gasped horrified. Her pumpkin pile! She sprinted for her precious pumpkins just as the copter blew up in midair raining parts and flaming gasoline into the trees. Sylvia arrived gasping to find her pumpkins cooking like a big pie and Old Man Braible napping under a tree.

"Mr. Braible?" she shook him, but the blast of the copter blowing into pieces right above had been too great a shock. His ancient old ticker had stopped beating; he'd died in his sleep.

That morning they buried Old Man Braible on a hill overlooking his beloved farm, the aroma of roasted pumpkin still permeating the air. Fall was approaching; winter not far behind.

"Carl?" Sylvia said looking sadder than sad.

"What's the matter, honey?" Carl asked with real concern.

"I think it's time to go."

"Where?"

"I don't know; there's nothing left for us here."

"See you, Old Man Braible Farm," Carl waved sad to go just a little but mostly relieved. They walked away.

Joe Frydegg came to tied face down over a long low crate wondering why his pants were down around his ankles, and just what was up his rear end?

"Hello?" he asked clearing his throat.

"Hey," a voice slurred, "I heard something."

"Where?" asked someone else.

"I don't know," the voice said. "It's coming out of this bitch you're dicking."

"I thought the bitch was dead?" Somebody flipped on the overhead light.

"It's no bitch, you dumb shit."

"Jeez, I thought she had funny tits. Does this mean we're all queer?"

"This is not funny!" Joe yelled.

"Shut the fuck up, faggot." Joe was clubbed with a lead pipe.

"I can't believe it. Dicking a guy," Whitey said staring down at his small but erect member. "No wonder my dick smells like crap."

"Yeah."

"Got any more beer?"

"No, we don't got any more beer. Jeez, Whitey, we drank it all. Want some anti-freeze?" Whitey took a long slug from the little yellow container. He handed it back to Pimps.

"Jeez, dicking a guy. Wow, it wasn't that bad."

"Are you kidding?" Pimps squeaked. "It was the grossest thing I ever did."

"If it was so gross, how come you kept shoving him the bacon?"

"I was not."

"You were too. I haven't seen you so excited since that time in Montana when we woke up in a sheep ranch."

"Look," Pimples whispered, "whatever you do, don't tell Rollins."

"Rollins dicked him too. We all did. Over and over and I'm gonna dick him some more."

"I warning, you, Whitey, if you turn queer on us, I'm going to have to beat you to a fucking pulp."

"Then beat yourself to a pulp too 'cause you dicked him just as much as me. Now get out of the way."

"Fucking queer," Pimps said finishing off the bottle of anti-freeze. Whitey stood there staring at himself. "So what's the matter?"

"Now I know I've been dicking a guy, I can't get it up again."

"See?" Pimps said. "I told you you weren't queer."

"But I want to dick him again," Whitey whined.

"Hey," Rollins snarled from behind the curtain half turning in the driver's seat, "one of you get up here and steer. It's my turn to dick the bitch."

"Oh, shit," Whitey breathed.

"Should we tell him?" Pimples asked.

"He'll just get mad."

"What the hell are you whispering about?" Rollins snarled letting go of the wheel. The van went out of control. People whispering behind his back always made him nervous. Whitey just managed to grab the wheel before they hit an oncoming tractor trailer.

"Whooee!" Rollins howled gleefully as he dropped his pants. "Hey, this bitch has sure got a hairy butt." He pumped away. "I was just listening to the Reverend Jimmy. Pretty good sermon today. Did you know all you got to do is kill a Libyan and it's an instant ticket to paradise?'

"No, Rollins, I didn't know that," Pimples said looking nervous.

"He was also explaining the relationship between bitches on welfare and the Trilateral Commission. Heavy stuff. Hey," he asked, "you think this bitch is a welfare queen?"

"Jeez, I don't know. Hey, Rollins, what are you doing?" Rollins had started to untie Joe.

"Goddamn welfare bitch. I'm gonna flip her over and do her from the front." Pimps tried to look away. After a moment a moment of cursing and fumbling around, Rollins paused. "Did you know this bitch had balls?"

"You're kidding," Pimps said feigning horror.

"Goddammit!" Rollins roared. "I've been dicking a dude! I'll kill the mother fucker." He whipped out his automatic.

"Rollins, not in the van!" Whitey yelled. "Remember the last guy you killed?" Rollins paused.

"Yeah, right. That fucking paperboy. Made a hell of a mess. Fucking paperboy everywhere."

"We'll kill him later."

"Yeah, right," Rollins said. "Later." He stood there rocking back and forth staring at Joe's gonads and giggled.

"What?" Pimps asked.

"I was just thinking we could turn this dude into a bitch easy enough with my fucking survival knife. Ah, what the fuck. Maybe later. Give me a beer."

"Beer's all gone."

"What?!" Rollins screamed.

"Shit," Pimple's said pulling himself from the wreck. Whitey was sitting by the side of the road. "What happened?"

"Rollins took a swing at you. We rolled the van."

"Are we dead?" Pimps asked.

"You stupid jerk, if we were dead, we'd be in Heaven right now getting our just rewards."

"Oh," Pimps said.

"What the fuck's going on?" Rollins roared springing out of the battered van like a demented cat; it's tail on fire.

"Jeez, Rollins," Whitey whispered, "keep it down. There could be blacks around."

"Blacks?" Rollins stiffened in fear. "How many? Hey, who the hell's this guy?" he demanded catching sight of Joe lying half out of the van unconscious. He'd taken a pretty good bouncing when it rolled.

"Jeez, Rollins," Pimps started, "don't you remember? He's the bitch we been di.." He gasped as Whitey slugged him.

"Looks like a Fed," Rollins said poking at Joe with a stick. "Anybody check his pockets?"

"Let's leave him for the blacks," Whitey grinned.

"Blacks?" repeated Rollins crouching. "Break out the automatic weapons. No, wait, stop, go. Let's get the hell out of here." Having worked himself into a demented frenzy, he hurled himself at the van.

"What's he doing?" Whitey asked Pimples.

"I think he's trying to turn it over."

"Help me, you rotten bastards," Rollins groaned all red in the face as he pushed away in a mad rush of adrenaline. "Heave, you fucking commie wimps," Rollins snarled and suddenly they got the van to start rolling over and over again until it finally landed on its wheels. "All right," Rollins cheered and they hit the road.

"Hey, it's kind of nice having a slave," Whitey smiled. "Slave, tie my shoes.

"Fuck you," Joe snarled. Rollins whacked him with a pipe.

"Learn some fucking manners, slave."

"You're all gonna pay for this, I swear," Joe whimpered fumbling at shoe laces.

"What you gonna do," Rollins taunted, "tell your Mommy?"

"I'm FBI. Wait till the Agency finds out," Joe said weakly nursing his throbbing arm.

"Yeah, well fuck your crummy Agency. We got an agency too," Pimples smirked.

"Shut your mouth," Rollins ordered taking a swing at Pimps with his pipe.

"So who's he gonna tell?" Pimps whined.

"That ain't the point. The only reason you know is 'cause I scream in my sleep. So keep your big mouth fucking shut."

"Well, it's not like they're paying us the big bucks," Whitey complained. "Fucking per diem's only thirty dollars a day per person."

"Hey, what Agency you working for anyway?" Joe asked interested. "Thirty a day's a good deal."

"I ain't gonna tell you guys again," Rollins snarled taking a wild swing at Whitey who was driving. Horns screamed as Whitey lost control of the van almost crashing into a school bus. Joe got scared. These guys were gonna get him killed.

"Come on, you guys," he whined weakly, "let me go."

"Can't do that," Whitey grunted as he half turned from the front. "Pimple's talked too much."

"What? You didn't tell me anything. And whatever that was, I forgot."

"Not good enough, you dumb FBI shit. Once we find a nice quiet place to beat you to death and hide your body, you're gonna go meet Jesus," Rollins grinned dementedly. "You have accepted Jesus as your personal savior, haven't you?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Joe said shaking his head confused. "You're gonna brutally murder me in some swamp and thump the Bible?"

"You got a problem with that?" Rollins asked. "Take the next right, Whitey. There ought to be a good lonely deserted swamp around here somewhere."

"Hey, look, a store!" Whitey cried out in excitement cutting across three lanes of traffic at once to get into the parking lot of a Mom & Pop. Horns screamed. A van load of the handicapped almost overturned.

"Great idea, Whitey dude," Rollins grinned. "I need some beer."

"And I need some food," Whitey squealed squeezing himself out of the van.

"And I need some--" Pimps began.

"Hey, you need to stand guard over the prisoner," Rollins ordered.

"Ah, come on, Rollins," Pimps whined. "Can't we just lock him in?"

Leaving Joe tied up in the back, the Skinheads swaggered into the local Mom & Pop. Mom, who wasn't really 'the Mom', she was just wearing a 'Mom' uniform and a gray wig for the national Mom & Pop convenience store franchise, watched uneasily from the cash register as Whitey inspected the food, Pimps pawed the muscle magazines, and Rollins bought stacks of pull-tabs stripping them open with a glazed stare.

"You gonna pay for that ham?" Mom shouted to Whitey who was having a munch. Whitey blushed sheepishly and put the ham on the counter.

"And you," she said with a tinge of disgust to Pimps who was drooling over the latest issue of 'Slab', "consider that copy sold. My god," she mumbled, "the kind of people we get in this store."

"Give me another stack of pull-tabs," Rollins ordered. She watched him uneasily ringing up another hundred dollar purchase. She wished 'Pop' would get the heck up from his nap and help her.

"We're ready when you are, Rollins," Whitey said. He had gathered a huge pile of overpriced, past-the-pull-date meats, cheeses, salamis, milks, and cartons of ice cream. Pimps set down three cases of Koors with a grunt and pile of muscle magazines.

"Rollins?" Whitey repeated as Rollins bought his third stack of pull-tabs. So far, he hadn't won anything. "Rollins?" Whitey repeated when he realized that all their government per diem was evaporating, well, like money in a Mom & Pop.

"Don't bother me!" Rollins cuffed him. "I'm on a roll."

"Yeah," muttered Mom who was making a small fortune off the fool, "leave the man alone. Here, have some candy on the house." She handed Whitey and Pimps each a jawbreaker.

"Geez, thanks Mom," Whitey grinned. No one ever gave him anything for free usually except maybe lice.

"I'm not your mom, you fat creep," she muttered as Rollins methodically, automatically, practically catatonic pulled his pull tabs.

"Win anything?" she smiled sweetly when he was done.

"Give me more," he roared his red face flaming.

"Don't you use that tone of voice with me, young man," she barked drawing out a sawed-off shotgun.

"Please?" Rollins' voice now dripped honey.

"Let's see some money," Mom ordered. Rollins searched his pockets.

"Give me what you've got," he ordered Whitey and Pimps.

"Rollins, you had all the cash," Whitey said feeling weak in his bad knees. What about their food?

"You must have something," Rollins said pulling a knife on Pimps.

"Hey, I don't allow that kind of behavior in my store," Ma ordered. "You want to knife the little creep, take him out back," she ordered. "And make sure you stuff him in the trash bin."

"What about our food?" Whitey whined as he followed Rollins outside.

"I want money," Rollins stated in a complete monotone. He stomped into the van. "Give me your money," he ordered Joe.

"You want my money? Sure, take my money. I think I got a whole three cents," Joe jeered. Rollins face turned even redder. He ripped Joe off the crate he was sitting on and tore it open.

"Wow," Joe admired with a thrill of fear, "nice automatic weapons."

"All right," Pimps enthused as Rollins loaded the rifle and stomped back towards the store. "Rollins is gonna waste Mom."

Shots rang out. But only from the shotgun. Rollins ran for the van. His automatic had jammed.

"Shit," Whitey croaked as Mom ran out of the shop firing—buckshot shattering the glass.

"We'll be back!!" Rollins screamed psychotically out the window. Spinning circles out of the parking lot, he screeched down the road.

"Sure wish we had some food," Whitey remarked his stomach grumbling like a garbage grinder.

"This looks pretty good," Rollins remarked turning into a gravel pit.

"Where's the food?" Whitey asked.

"Wow," exclaimed Pimps as he tumbled out of the van into the flat, gray barren expanse, "great place to kill a Fed."

"What about something to eat?" Whitey complained.

"Hey, after we croak this guy, you can cut him up for steaks," Rollins giggled. "Pimps, untie the prisoner and hand me my favorite tire iron."

"Did you say steaks?" Whitey asked again licking his lips.

"I like mine rare," Rollins grinned checking his favorite tire iron for balance and heft. He took a few practice swings. Whitey and Pimps tore down a sign and got a fire going.

"Release the prisoner," Rollins ordered with a dull stare. Joe tried to run and tripped sprawling face first in the dirt. Not bothering to struggle, he noted his final moments felt hardly any different than his entire life. He always had been the proverbial chicken crossing the rush hour Interstate.

"Get up and run," Rollins said cheerfully. "I want to make this fun."

"Fuck you," Joe mumbled face down in the dust. "Smack me and get it over with."

"Look, you fuck!" Rollins screeched. "You run or I will personally skin you alive strip by strip over the next ten days."

"Better do as he says, stupid," Pimps giggled. "He's got a Class A certificate in Torture and Interrogation. It was part of our training."

"All right, all right," Joe said struggling reluctantly to his feet still bound hand and foot. "You gonna untie my feet?"

"I said I wanted to make it interesting," Rollins smiled. "Not easy. Hop!" he screamed. "Hop like a rabbit, and I'll be Mister Fox." Joe hopped and tripped. He rose clumsily again, and hopped.

"Faster," Rollins ordered stepping after him. Joe hopped faster. Even at a stroll, Rollins was gaining. Joe hopped desperately getting a few feet. Rollins broke into a quick walk. Joe hopped like mad. Rollins started jogging his breath coming in ragged gasps as Pimps watched and cheered. Joe hopped around the side of the van. Rollins tripped and sprawled on his face. Joe hopped across the pit. Rollins pulled himself up snarling, his face glowing red. Picking up a large rock, he heaved it striking Joe on the back of the head.

"All right, Rollins," Pimps cheered as Joe collapsed face first in the dust.

"Dinner will soon be served," Whitey cried out as he tended his fire.

"I'm gonna tear out his throat with my teeth," Rollins swore advancing on Joe. A pickup truck rumbled into the gravel pit drawing up close.

"Hey Boys," a smiling middle-aged man's voice rang out. "Welcome to Lazy Acres RV Roundup. You're staying how many nights?"

"Huh?" Pimps said walking up to the truck.

"This is private property, Son," the man said seriously. "The fee is twenty bucks a night; extra if you want hookups."

"Hey Rollins," Pimps called for Rollins who had almost reached the FBI agent, "this guy says we got to pay."

"Pay for what!?" Rollins screamed visibly annoyed at being distracted from his prey.

"Sorry, Buddy," the manager told Whitey, "we don't allow fires at Lazy Acres RV Roundup." He held out a fire extinguisher. "I'd appreciate it if you put it out."

"But..." Whitey started to protest, "we thought this was just a nice lonely spot where we could do anything we wanted."

"You didn't know this was an RV Roundup?" asked the manager surprised. "But I had a sign." He looked around. "Now where did that little sucker go?"

"What's the fucking problem here," Rollins demanded dragging Joe up by the leg.

"That fellow okay?" the manager asked.

"Yeah, just too much to drink," Rollins snapped impatiently.

"He wants us to pay him."

"We're broke."

"Then I'm afraid you'll have to leave," smiled the manager.

"Fuck you!" Rollins roared.

"Then you're trespassing," the manager smiled real friendly like taking out a sawed off shotgun.

"We're on our way, sir," Rollins smiled dragging Joe off to the van.

"There's a free state campground up the road a bit," the manager called out as they all got back into the van.

"Shit," Rollins cursed as they drove up the road. "Shit, shit, shit."

They drove and drove and drove. Finally Pimps spotted a bullet riddled sign.

"State campground sixty miles," he announced.

"I'm hungry," Whitey complained. He had already snagged all the loose cockroaches in the van and now he was munching stuffing from the seat.

The road got narrower and narrower. The pavement disappeared. Nearby mountains loomed, the woods grew thicker and taller. It gave them all the creeps. After all, they were skinheads, urban predators; all this wild natural shit was pretty weird.

"You think maybe the Indians will attack?" Pimps asked nervously.

"Don't be fucking stupid," Rollins laughed with a certainty he didn't feel. He glanced at the gas gauge nervously. It was low. A sign loomed up in the dusk:

**Pisaquallee Indian Reservation. Bingo. Free Leonard Peltier, and Please Drive Safely** **.**

"I told you," Pimps cried out. Rollins backhanded him.

"Shut up, we're Aryans, we already murdered fifty million of the redskin bastards; what's a few dozen more?"

"I'm scared," Pimps whined wiggling a loose tooth.

It grew darker, the potholes got worse and worse. Some of the puddles were so deep water seeped under the doors.

"Where is that fucking campground!" Rollins raged.

"I don't know," Pimps wept.

"I'm hungry," Whitey complained. Joe moaned from the back.

Now inky black, Rollins could barely see with only one dirty headlight but he was afraid to stop and wipe it clean. Another sign loomed up in the murk; the campground was one more mile. They drove crawling over a rutted track that seemed like the original Oregon Trail. It seemed like hours. Everyone had to pee except Joe who had already wet himself an hour ago.

Another sign loomed. They couldn't read it for the bullet holes.

"This has got to be it," Rollins said turning down an even narrower dirt track. They bumped along another thirty minutes and entered a small clearing. By the van's feeble single headlight, they could make out the hacked up remains of one picnic table and a single outhouse leaning over so far it looked ready to topple over.

"All right, Rollins," Pimps and Whitey cheered. Rollins beat on the steering wheel, but even though every one of them had to pee like blazes, none of them made a move. They sat there for several minutes smiling and talking. Suddenly it was silent.

"Why don't you guys start a fire?" Rollins suggested. "I got stuff to do in the van." He bent over pretending to adjust some wires on the steering column.

"You first, Whitey," Pimps said politely.

"No, you first," Whitey responded even more politely.

"Oh, no, after you," Pimps insisted.

"After you," Whitey smiled reaching over to unlock Pimple's door.

"I wouldn't think of it," Pimps said smiling with difficulty as he snapped the lock back down.

"Why fucking not?" Whitey demanded a slight edge to his voice.

"You fucking tell me!" Pimps screeched.

"Chicken-shit commie fag lesbo geek," Whitey howled grabbing Pimps by the neck. Pimps flashed a knife. They rolled back and forth across the floor of the van, a flailing knot of flying fists, legs,arms and knees.

"Knock it off!" Rollins roared his face dangerously red. The knot of arms, legs, and fists lay still. "I got an idea. We'll send our friend from the FBI."

"Hey, yeah, Rollins, great idea," Pimps and Whitey enthused jointly. Dragging Joe up by the nap of his overcoat, they threw him out into the dark.

"Come back with a full report," Rollins ordered as the door slammed to a chorus of high-pitched giggling.

"Stupid fuckers," Joe chuckled to himself. It was the best thing they could have done to him. He rose stiffly to make his escape as the moon drifted in and out between the clouds casting a wavering light. Noticing the broken up picnic table, Joe considered building a fire under the van's gas tank. Unfortunately, he didn't have any matches. Passing the leaning outhouse, he saw a poster flapping feebly against the door. He could just make out the picture of a huge tiger.

**LOST**

**BIG CIRCUS CAT**

**DO NOT ATTEMPT TO PET OR FEED**

**IF FOUND, PLEASE CALL ACME CIRCUS**

**SMALL REWARD**

"Shit," Joe said mildly alarmed. There was a sudden movement in the brush. Joe jumped inside the john. He waited. Somebody or something was padding through the gravel of the parking lot. It was just outside the door. Joe could hear just the hint of a low growl; a rhythmic breathing in and out.

"Hey," he said hoping for a skinhead. "If you're going to beat me to death, get it over with, will you?... Guys?" There was no answer. Joe peeked out through a crack in the door. A great yellow eye stared back at him.Panicked, he looked for somewhere to hide in the John, and there was only one place.

"Where the heck is that guy?" Rollins finally complained.

"Maybe he's trying to escape."

"He wouldn't dare," Rollins snarled. "Whitey, go get the prisoner."

"Why me?" Whitey whined in real fear.

"Are you disobeying a direct order?" Rollins glared aiming an automatic pistol. Whitey lurched out the door just as the moon disappeared.

Rollins and Pimps waited until well after dawn before venturing out after their comrade. "What's that yelling?" Rollins asked. It was coming from the outhouse. Rollins kicked in the door.

"I don't see anyone," said Pimps looking in.

"Down here!" Joe yelled.

The only trace they found of Whitey was a blood-soaked Nike running shoe and some drag marks in the gravel leading into the brush.

"Shit," Rollins spat. "Where am I gonna get another skinhead? The minimum club size is three."

"Don't worry, Rollins," Pimps assured him. "People are lining up to join the Skinheads."

"Get a clue, you fucking jerk," Rollins snarled in contempt. Even he wasn't that crazy. Besides, the Circle Jerk started in two days. They had barely enough time to find another Skinhead, let alone perform the initiation. His eyes wandered over to Joe sitting forlornly at the picnic table his face cradled in his arms. What a pathetic little creep. Skinny arms, shrunken potbelly, thin greasy hair.

"Hey, you fuck," Rollins called. Joe didn't even lift his head. "Want to be part of a great Aryan tradition?"

"Him?" Pimps said with distaste.

"You got any other ideas?" Rollins hissed. "It's just to make the registration. We can off him later."

"But he smells bad," Pimps protested.

"Hey," Rollins said defensively, "I've smelled plenty of skins who've smelled ten times worse."

"He's old," Pimps.

"So was Hitler," Rollins countered.

"Still..," Pimps started to say still unconvinced. Rollins smacked him right in the mouth ending the debate.

Joe looked at himself in the van's vibrating mirror. His head was shaved, he was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, and heavy steel-toed boots three sizes too big for him.

"Hey, you want a tattoo?"

"Hell no," Joe told Pimps. "I got one in the Army. I'm still stuck with it."

"Hey, we don't do the real kind," Pimps grinned. "That hurt's. Ours are all stick-on." He passed Joe a big album of iron crosses: iron crosses dripping with blood, iron crosses with flowered wreaths, iron crosses with breasts, and many others. Joe hemmed and hawed finally picking a cross sporting a pork pie hat."Flex your arm and you can make the hat tip. Ain't that a killer?" Pimps giggled.

.

Now that he was a real, albeit temporary, skinhead, it was Joe's turn to drive.

"Did you know we were almost out of gas?"

"So find a gas station!" Rollins screamed pissed because they'd interrupted his daze.

Finally Joe spotted a collection of shacks around one old rusty gas pump. He pulled off. Instantly Rollins was awake with a knife to Joe's throat.

"What the fuck are you trying to pull?"

"Gas," Joe said gesturing outside. A weathered sign welcomed them to the Pisaquallee Reservation gas station and pull-tab emporium. Two dark skinny boys with long, shiny black hair were shooting baskets in the yard. It was dry, dusty, and hot.

"Are those Indians?" Pimps asked in a voice gilt with fear.

"Shut up. Pull up to that pump and fill it up," Rollins ordered Joe.

"How we gonna pay?" Pimps wanted to know.

"Who said, pay?" Rollins said with a twisted grin. "We're white, they're Indians. We take what we want." Joe went inside. A small Indian girl was behind the counter reading a tattered comic book. Joe cleared his throat. She gave him a quick amused glance and resumed reading. Joe looked around the inside of the ancient building uneasily. A sign announced a meeting tonight of the local chapter of the American Indian Movement. There was a big picture of Leonard Peltier. Joe waited a little more. Rollins honked impatiently from inside the van.

"Could we get some gas?" Joe blurted out. The girl looked up slowly.

"Cash in advance," she ordered.

"Uh, I left my wallet in the car," Joe said retreating out the door.

"What's the fucking problem?" Rollins snarled.

"They want the money first."

"Shit," Rollins cursed. So much for that idea. "Who's in there?"

"It's some little girl."

"A little girl?" Rollin's face glowed incandescently. "How's she look."

"I don't know," Joe shrugged.

"I'll take care of it," Rollins smirked strutting across the yard like a demented rooster. "Okay, you little bitch..," he began pushing through the door.

"What little bitch you want?" demanded an enormously tall Indian who looked like he bench-pressed cars. Rollins coughed, choked, and tried to run but another enormous Indian had blocked the door.

"Ain't nobody's tried to call my brother a bitch since the Feds put him in prison," he smiled. "You ready for your funeral?"

"Bitch, bitch, did you hear bitch? I was just sneezing, that's all," Rollins insisted his face several shades of yellow.

"That so?" said the other.

"It's the truth," Rollins broke into tears falling to his knees.

"Boy, what white people won't do for gasoline," the little girl grinned. The Indians all laughed.

Half an hour later the van pulled away as practically the entire tribe of Pisaquallee Indians laughed, hooted, and waved. Ten gallons of gas had cost the skinheads an entire crate of automatic weapons, three boxes of ammunition and now they were all missing their pants.

"Dirty mother fucking Indians," Rollins muttered his face glowing bright red.

"Dirty mother fucking Indians," Pimps echoed. "We'll be back to slaughter the whole tribe, right Rollins?"

"After we gave them all those guns? Get a clue, you stupid shit," Rollins snarled slapping Pimps upside the head. Off to the Circle Jerk!

FOURTEEN
Carl stomped another can flat under the hot sun. He was dry as a bean. Sylvia drug forward another bag. The price of aluminum had gone up again so now they were gathering cans. Syl handed him a worn looking baseball cap.

"Must have blown off someone's head."

"Gee, thanks, honey," Carl smiled adjusting the hatband to pinhead fitting. "What I wouldn't do for a nice cold pop."

"Right after we sell this aluminum," Syl smiled.

"Well, if you see a cold one just lying by the side of the road, be sure and let me know," Carl grinned and stomped another can.

They had sacks of squished aluminum hidden in the bushes up and down the freeway. In the cover of night, they'd gather the sacks into an old overgrown shack a little ways off the road in the middle of a cornfield. Their hope was to get enough for a truckload and sell it to a recycling center. Then maybe with a little money, well, who knows, start a business, do an IPO and then they'd be millionaires and buy a great big ol' RV.

As Syl trudged just behind Carl through the thick grass picking up cans, a wadded up paper bag came tumbling down the bank tossed from a passing limousine.

"All right, french fries," Carl cheered chasing the bag into the ditch, but after he tore it open, his face was a picture of disappointment.

"No fries?"

"Nah, just some stupid white powder. Looks like laundry soap."

"Save it!" Syl cried. "God knows we could stand to wash our clothes."

"If you say so," Carl said stuffing the bag in his pants. He stomped another can and walked on.

Minutes later the big black limo—followed by two black Ford Escorts—roared back down the freeway screeching to a halt by the side of the road. Accompanied by what seemed to be the high-pitched squealing of an angry pig, Suits piled out of the Escorts and waded into the grass.

"Wonder what's up?" Carl asked looking back. Syl felt a sinking sensation.

"Carl, let's move along down the road. Come on," she ordered yanking him up towards the edge of the cornfield. Something was just not right. She plunged into the tall green plants.

The Chief Suit approached the black limo in a deferential crouch not daring to look up. The automatic mirrored glass rolled partially down.

"You find it?" a rich oily voice inquired.

"A little white bag you say?" the Suit asked weakly.

"Goddammit," snapped the Senator holding up a little white paper bag of half-eaten french fries. "It looked exactly like this. I know this is the exact place. Look, you little son-of-a-bitch," he added with an extremely malevolent stare, "I got an important committee meeting in one hour. Find my cocaine!"

"Yes, sir," the Suit pivoted on his heel smartly. "Do the bloodhound!" he commanded the Suits under his command. They all dropped immediately to all fours and heads down went sniffing back and through the green waving grass.

Senator 'Buster' Eustace Blowfish III settled back uncomfortably into his hand-tooled leather upholstered seat. In response to a snap of his fingers, his 'Tiffany' poured him four fingers of single malt scotch. Gulping the amber liquid angrily, he realized he was tired. Obviously, otherwise he wouldn't have pitched a bag of extremely expensive Colombian Deluxe White out the limo window mistaking it for fast food trash. "Get away from me," he kicked out at the other Tiffany who was trying to massage his feet. Her fearful expression as she backed away improved his mood a little. Smiling with satisfaction, he kicked her again and guzzled more scotch. In moments, the Chief Suit, his knees green with grass stains, was tapping on the glass.

"You find it?" the Senator hissed.

"No sir."

"I could have you die a horrible death," Blowfish whispered his thin bony twisting fingers clawing the air like the death agonies of a small rodent.

"I know that sir, and I look forward to my punishment, I realize I have failed," the Chief Suit replied without expression. Drawing his nickel plated automatic, he placed the barrel to his forehead. "Would the Senator care to order my self-execution?"

"Goddammit," the Senator turned away in frustration. How could you threaten death to some zombie who actually liked the idea? They'd gone too damned far in this new personnel training.

"Senator, I await your pleasure," intoned the Suit.

"Shit," the Senator squealed with frustration. "Hey, wait a minute. Didn't I just see some white trash out rummaging the grass?

"Excuse me?" the Suit asked perplexed.

"Peasants, bums, workers, citizens, whatever," the Senator waved his long-fingered, bony hand. "I know I just saw a couple. Where the hell they go?"

"I'm not sure, sir," the Suit replied cocking his head like a hunting dog. He sniffed the breeze

"Find them," the Senator said coolly closing the window in the Suit's face. The Chief Suit signaled to his Suits. Bending low at the waist they sniffed the grass carefully until one of them picked up the prey's scent.

"Oh, my god," Sylvia whispered in horror.

"What?" Carl asked munching an ear of corn.

"They're looking for us," Syl whispered. "Be still."

"I don't know what you're worried about," Carl said reaching for another ear of corn. "We didn't do nothing."

"Carl, we never do nothing, but how come we always land headfirst in a poop storm?" Raising his eyebrows, Carl nodded thoughtfully. It did seem that way, sometimes. A whistle was blown. Suits looking right their way approached with drawn automatic weapons. It was too late to run. Staying very quiet, they crouched lower into the corn as Suits passed them to the left.

"Did you see those idiots?" Carl giggled. "Walked right by us."

"Oh, Carl..." Sylvia sighed. There was a sudden cocking of weapons. They'd been found.

"We have requisitioned our targets, Senator. Shall I question them?"

"No, bring them here," a cold oily voice ordered over the cell phone. Sylvia shivered.

The Senator had managed to heave his bulk out of the limousine and was waiting for the poor, stupid, white trash it was his god given right to rule. He knocked the ash off his cigar and smiled.

"Good afternoons, folks," he said in his best folksy television campaign manner, "how we all doing today?"

"Better if you'd leave us alone," Sylvia responded sullenly. The Chief Suit made ready to club her senseless but Blowfish restrained him with the slightest wiggle of a pinky.

"Now, darling," Blowfish continued in his carefully crafted countrified honeyed tones, "this matter involves national security. We just thought you might be able to help." Blowfish paused watching them carefully. It was well known among the country's rulers that the magic words: "national security" could get the poor be-knighted citizens of America to do just about any stupidly self-destructive thing.

"Huh?" Carl asked.

"National Security," Blowfish broke in enjoying this opportunity to exercise his skills of persuasion, "means being a good citizen, son, you know, a white man."

"I couldn't help you there, sir," Carl said looking Blowfish right in the eye. "I'm an Indian, and Syl here's an Indian too. That is, if she feels like it today. Sometimes she don't."

"Well, Indians are part of this magnificent country of ours too," Blowfish continued in his soothing, honeyed tones.

"Sir," the Chief Suit reminded him checking his titanium chronometer, "you are scheduled to debate the opposition in less than an hour. Shouldn't we eliminate these two and leave?"

"Don't you dare tell me what to do," the Senator hissed like an angry snake. Sylvia snapped awake watching the Senator with renewed wariness. "Hell, dammit, you happy?" Blowfish cursed his servant. "You ruined the effect."

"Sorry, sir," the Chief Suit apologized putting his automatic to his head.

"Put that goddamned thing away and find my cocaine," the Senator screeched.

"Cocaine?" Sylvia said in surprise.

"The coke, bitch, or we all rape you, and leave the skinny guy for dead," the Chief Suit threatened in a bland voice.

"Don't you threaten my wife," Carl bristled angrily. He was zapped immediately with stun guns.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sylvia said hardly able to speak for fear.

"Now, honey, I don't have time for your bullshit," the Senator smiled cruelly. "I'm looking for a small white paper bag full of some very expensive powder."

"That stuff? We thought it was laundry soap. Carl's got it in his pocket." Carl was searched. In seconds they had the bag.

"Laundry powder," the Senator chuckled taking himself a little snort."I'll have to tell that one to the boys in the cloakroom. Take them to the field and cut their throats."

"What did we ever do to you!" Sylvia yelled as the Suits dragged her away.

"You inconvenienced me, woman, ain't that enough?" Blowfish said squeezing his bulk back into the limo.

"You skunk!" Sylvia yelled before she was stunned silent. The Senator checked his own platinum ruby-studded chronometer, a gift from a significant Saudi Prince.

"By golly," he said squeezing his bulk back out, "I got a minute or two. I think I'll cut that little lady's throat myself. You all wait for me!" he shouted waddling after them to the cornfield. He had just reached the bottom of the ditch when the limo erupted into a boiling ball of flame. A car bomb, carefully timed to detonate before the Senator could arrive at his Washington committee meeting, rained pieces of Suits, limo, and Tiffanys up and down the road. The Senator himself was hit in the head by a flying scotch bottle. He sank to his bony knees.

As the dust cleared and flames subsided, Blowfish staggered to his feet disoriented now hugging the near empty bottle of single malt scotch that had dented his head.

"Are you okay, sir?" the Chief Suit limped towards him, his leg skewered by a tie rod.

"Randolph?" the Senator asked. "I'm looking for Randolph. I know I just saw the boy."

"Sir," the Suit responded, "your son is dead."

"Dead? Dead?" the Senator repeated with an expression of shock and frustration. "My little sonny boy killed again? Let me see my little boy." He slipped on the blood soaked grass as he scrambled towards the cornfield on all fours.

"This is Delta Three" the Chief Suit said into his cellular phone before fainting from loss of blood. "We have a class two security breach. Send all units."

"Randolph, my boy!" howled the Senator sprawling over Carl who was fine but still immobilized from the stun gun. "Thank god, I got you back." He paused momentarily to suck on his scotch bottle. "Who was it, boy? Who was the dirty rotten lying bastards who kept you away from me? I'm gonna eat their livers raw."

"Get off my husband, you big hog," Sylvia yelled pulling at Blowfish, "you're squishing him to death." Blowfish stared at her incredulously.

"You married my boy? By god, woman, do I got grandchildren? Is there a male heir to the Blowfish line?"

"You're crazy!" she shouted barely managing to roll him off Carl who had turned dangerously purple.

"Randolph!" Blowfish screeched ecstatically gripping Carl in his thin bony fingers. "I knew it wasn't true what they told me. All lies, you'd never gotten knifed by some lousy prostitute in Vietnam. Not a Blowfish." He stopped looking Carl right in the face. "Goddamn you, boy," he suddenly screamed. "Where you been all these years! Drinking I bet. Now you're broke and it's back to the old man for some cash. That's fine, son, that's fine," he wept. "You wouldn't believe how I'm rolling in it now. Hell, I'm richer than your Mama ever was." He stopped, staring into Carl's face. "Now don't you look at me that way. Wasn't my fault the bitch went crazy. I was worried about you, that's all when I had her committed for being criminally insane. She was, I know it. She wanted to give away her money. She had all these liberal ideas that weren't gonna help you none in your career. I couldn't take a chance. I done it all for you, Son, you're gonna go places.. More Scotch!" Blowfish screamed hurling the empty bottle in the grass. Surviving Suits frantically searched the debris for any trace of the two cases that had been sitting in the limo. "But piss on that Senate stuff, boy," the Senator grinned as blood streamed from his wounded head running in rivulets down and around his multiple chins, "I got bigger plans. We're gonna make you president!"

A squadron of black helicopters descended from the clouds like armored carrion birds. Due to the nature of the security breach, dreaded Class Two secret elite troops of the imperial congressional guard eliminated all survivors including several carloads of tourists who had stopped to take pictures and ask the Senator for his autograph. The Senator and his newly found family were hustled into the lead copter, which had been sent specially by the President.

"Get me another drink," Blowfish ordered once medical orderlies had laid him gently out on the President's extra king-size bed.

"I'm afraid you really shouldn't have any more to drink," the President's personal physician admonished him gently.

"Yeah, maybe you're right. I got one hell of a debate coming up in less than thirty minutes. Where's my boy?" The copter lurched sharply up. Carl was helping the pilot fly.

Sylvia sat back in her seat with a tremendous feeling of unease. That Senator person was the craziest meanest man she'd ever met and she'd met a few in the last year. Her Carl couldn't possibly be any Randolph and making him president was the craziest thing she'd ever heard.

"Can I get you something?" a Tiffany asked demurely bending down on one knee.

"Have you got anything to eat?"

"Alaska King Crab or Kobe beef?"

"Whatever you have," Sylvia said embarrassed at the Tiffany's servile solicitude. "I'm not picky."

"I'll bring you a selection of both," Tiffany responded whisking away. Sylvia picked up the latest copy of "Rule" idly flipping through it. An article on unemployment caught her attention. According to the author, unemployment, the more the better, was an excellent idea because it improved corporate profit positions due to the increased docility of labor.

"What kind of mean awful crazy people would pay attention to a man like that?" Sylvia said tossing the magazine aside. Tiffany appeared staggering slightly under two extremely heavy trays.

"Will there be anything else?" Tiffany inquired politely.

"I'd like your biggest doggie bag," Sylvia asked her. Tiffany looked momentarily confused. She hustled off.

"Watcha got there?" Carl appeared helping himself to a crab leg.

"Enough food for a week," replied his wife looking at her husband with concern. "Carl, you know that man is out of his mind."

"Yeah, sure, but I'm having fun."

"He was going to kill us before that limo blew up."

"Well, maybe he's learned bad things happen if you're not nice to people. He's nice now."

"Carl," she began.

"Did you hear him say I could have as many cars as I wanted?" Carl smiled happily. Snatching another crab leg, he wandered off down the corridor. In a small cubicle to his left, a uniformed officer was watching Sylvia on closed circuit television and taking notes. Quickly he closed the door.

"Is that my boy?" the Senator inquired from his prone position in the Presidential stateroom.

"You feeling any better?" Carl smiled.

"If that don't beat all," Blowfish shook his head beaming with pride. "Years ago my boy didn't care if I lived or died. In fact, I remember he had a proclivity for snipping the brake lines on my Cadillac, but I outsmarted the little scamp every time. That's why I stuck you in the Army. 'Figured you might as well take all that hostility out on them gooks as on me."

"Certainly," the physician agreed amicably. "And which war was your son in, Senator?"

"Vietnam."

"Vietnam?" the physician asked taking a good long look at Carl who was almost twenty one even though he just graduated from high school. "He looks remarkably young for his age."

"Yeah," said the Senator. "Funny, ain't it because I always looked like shit and his ma's dead. 'Course that wasn't from natural causes. From which I am completely innocent of despite what you might have heard," he said taking a careful look at Carl. Carl wasn't listening. He was playing with the Senator's bed. It would raise and lower at each end depending on which buttons you pushed. Now it was folding in half.

"Uh, son," the physician rose concerned.

"Now don't you bother my boy," Blowfish interjected painfully. "I want him to have a good time."

"But..." the physician said watching helplessly as the bed enfolded Blowfish like a ham sandwich. Carl suddenly lost interest and wandered to the side of the compartment.

"What's this?" he asked idly flippng a few levers on a complex looking electronic device.

"Hell, I don't know," gasped Blowfish as the physician hurriedly straightened out the bed, but somewhere in the South Pacific, the captain of a newly launched multi-billion dollar submarine was ordered to scuttle his new command.

"Anything good on the Tube?" Carl asked the man in the cubicle. One channel was him watching Sylvia, the next was him watching the officer who was watching Sylvia, and the next was him watching himself. Carl kept surfing channels but they only covered boring secret meetings, whistle blower show trials, and conspiracy cartoons. He rose idly poking into drawers. Blowfish watched him intently.

"Now don't you worry, boy," he called. "Once we get to Washington, there's gonna be lots for you to do."

"I hope," Carl replied despondently. Walking the freeway crushing cans was more exciting than this. He wandered back to Sylvia for some more crab but was intercepted by the Tiffany who was fairly ambitious for a young woman of sixteen.

"Can I get you something, sir?" she breathed huskily blocking his way with her slight surgically modified frame.

"Got any Korny Kurls?" Carl asked.

"Well, that's a sex position I wasn't trained in, but I'm a very quick learner," she whispered in a husky voice.

"I think it's a snack but let's ask my wife," Carl said. The Tiffany disappeared at the mention of 'wife' and Carl watched the man who was watching a man watch Sylvia. "So is that all you do all day?"

"Carl, come and see Washington," Sylvia called as they flew in low towards the capitol building. A huge crowd was gathered in the park below waving signs and shaking their fists. Between the crowd and the Capitol building steps, policemen were gathered with masses of troops and tanks.

"I wonder what's up?" Carl asked. Sylvia shrugged as the copter hovered for a moment and touched down.

Wanting to make the most out of the bomb attack for the Press, Blowfish was hustled out of the copter with his head bandaged and sporting a fake leg cast. Seated in the gold-plated presidential armored wheelchair, Blowfish, flanked by Carl, Sylvia, and a contingent of vigilant heavily armed guards, approached the Press who were all waiting respectfully on the lawn with their heads slightly bowed and their hands covering their privates.

"Senator Blowfish?" Sally Slather waved. The Senator smiled always glad to see Sally. Not only did her media conglomerate, which owned sixty newspapers, ninety television stations, and a publishing empire, contribute heavily to his re-election fund but she gave a hell of a good blow job.

"Why, Sally," the Senator beamed holding out his bony hand.

"Oh, Senator," Sally said feigning concern, "is there anything I can do to help?"

"Actually, you can," the Senator said with a knowing smirk to Carl. "We call her the human vacuum, Randolph."

"And this is..?" Sally smiled flashing an impressive set of blazing white synthetic choppers.

"My son, Randolph."

"Really?" Sally said hardly able to hide her surprise. The only Randolph she could remember from an exhaustive study of the Senator's file was a certain Randolph who had been stabbed to death in a bar fight with a hooker in Vietnam.

"How interesting," Sally said bending low to show off her surgically enhanced cleavage.

"Unfortunately," the Senator said leaning closer, "the little sucker's gone and got himself married."

"That would be me," Sylvia said giving Sally a cold look. Sally stopped bending.

"How interesting. Now Senator," Sally continued with a careful glance towards the Congressional Censor who was supervising the camera crew, "there are rumors this attack was inspired by one of your political opponents."

"Is that so?" Blowfish said motioning for the Censor to cut the cameras. "And off the record, which political opponent would that be?"

"Senator," Sally smiled always eager to be of service to a man who was such a close personal friend and political ally to the Australian multi-billionaire who owned her, "it's rumored to be a certain Senator who has a significant financial stake in your upcoming debate." Blowfish looked confused momentarily, but then he smiled.

"Why, I'll be damned. I didn't know the little crippled piss ant had it in him."

"So what will your reaction be, Senator? Does this mean open warfare?" Sally giggled with anticipation. Blowfish didn't answer momentarily lost in a maze of mental machiavellianism. "Off the record, of course." The Senator looked up signaling the Censor to allow the cameras to turn on.

"Yes, Sally, in response to your question. This attack was engineered by my political opponents, and yours, and everyone's in this fine country of ours. I am absolutely dead certain with irrefutable evidence that the car bomb was planted by Libyans." He signaled for the camera to cut again. "You see how that was done, Randolph?" he leaned over towards Carl who had not been paying attention. "This is how we manage the Free Press in this, our great democracy."

"Senator," Sally asked, "you mentioned this was your son. Our records show that your son was killed in the Vietnam War."

"He was kidnapped, obviously, and held in prison where those damned commie gooks tortured any memory of his poor lonely old Dad right out of him. But somehow, using his natural good looks and Blowfish smarts, he was able to make his escape where he eventually made it back to this country and god knows how, married that raggedly looking woman over there who obviously ain't got a dime, which goes to show you how badly off track the poor boy's been. Ain't that all about right, Randolph?"

"Huh," Carl distracted by a sudden police riot.

"In fact," Blowfish whispered into Sally's ear his thin lips flicking flesh with lascivious interest, "we got to get our Randolph out and circulating. While a wife with money's good, a wife with a sense of how to manage the media could do a lot to advance the boy's political career. And get something for herself, I might add," Blowfish added with lick of his dry lips. Sally looked Randolph over with a calculating glance. Although he looked like a homeless person, she'd serviced worse than him to climb the ladder of influence and success and why not? He was the Senator's son and now that she had reached the advanced age of twenty seven, her career as a prime time television reporter was clearly coming to an end.

"So what are we saying here, Senator?" Sally asked. "Are you inviting me to have lunch with you and your son?"

"And his wife," Blowfish said a foreboding glint in his eye. "Unless you can find a way of gettin' rid of her, for which I'd be more than grateful," he added in a whisper.

"Maybe she'd like to go shopping," Sally suggested. "Who knows what could happen in a city as dangerous as this?"

"Who knows, indeed?" Blowfish chuckled. He had always liked Sally and not just because she sucked his dick. Ordering the rest of the Free Press to be dispersed, the Senator and his retinue entered the Capitol for the committee meeting which was scheduled to start.

Sylvia looked in awe at the recently remodeled halls of the Capitol. Every wall and corner was stuffed with magnificently executed paintings and statues of the morons, thieves, and sociopaths who made up the majorities in both the US Senate and especially the House. The walls dripped with gilt and inlaid jewels, glittering more brightly than any palace of an emperor or czar. In fact, nothing quite rivaled the fabulous display except the second, third, and fourth homes of a few hundred international mega-billionaires.

"Why, Senator Cyrus Wetlock!" Blowfish called out across the floor, which was inlaid in semi-precious stone tiles. A thin, pale man with painfully twisted limbs turned suddenly and almost collapsed into the arms of his own Suit contingent at the sight of Blowfish. "How are you doing, Senator!?" Blowfish boomed. Grinning widely, he showed all of his thin, sharp teeth.

"Why, Senator Blowfish," Wetlock wheezed overcome by a sudden asthma attack as his Suits all assumed defensive stances drawing their Uzis.

"Didn't expect to see me here, did you, you crippled up little cocksucker?" Blowfish hissed his beady little malevolent eyes glittering.

"Why, Senator," Wetlock screamed his eyes glaring with demented hate, "you know the sight of you makes me puke!"

"By the way," Blowfish responded apoplectically, "it was me who burgled your psychiatrist's files. Wouldn't that make good reading in the Wall Street Inquirer?"

"Speaking of releasing, what if I happened to release those tapes I have on your last four junkets to Bali?" grinned the crippled Senator. "I have proof that they were exceedingly personally profitable." Both men paused suddenly. Clearly their own rabid hate for each other could quickly escalate into a vast unpleasantness that would only enrich arms dealers and stables of lawyers.

"Goddammit, Senator," Blowfish suddenly faked a grin, "what are we both doing fighting each other like this? Let's be reasonable. We can both screw over the rest of them and split the profits. Sixty/forty okay with you?" He thrust out his hand.

"Fifty/fifty you filthy little whore, you," Cyrus Wetlock agreed emotionally as he wrapped his withered, twitching arms around Blowfish's practically invisible neck. Around the two powerful men the Suits visibly relaxed, saved from a vicious turf war that could claim dozens of their own lives not counting hordes of innocent civilians

"Let's go in and do that meeting," the Senator said. "You take Randolph and that woman of his upstairs for lunch," he instructed Sally. "I'll join you in a couple minutes."

"My name is Sylvia," Sylvia said stiffly as Sally showed the way.

"Really?" Sally smiled adding with a catty smirk at Sylvia's ragged and dirty clothes. "By the way, I like your outfit. It's so retro-nouveau." She led them into one of the world's finest restaurants where those who vigorously guarded the national treasury from the ranks of the poor and underprivileged could eat some of the best food prepared in Washington completely free of charge.

Blowfish and Wetlock entered the Senate Cafeteria soon after since the committee meeting was a done deal. All that remained was for their aides to go through the motions of debate and voting. The checks would be cut later.

As Blowfish was wheeled in, his colleagues rose and cheered. Some cheered because a valuable ally had survived an attempt on his life, but most because the attempt had been made. Those who counted themselves disappointed consoled themselves in the hope that the assassins would have better luck next time and ordered more drinks. Blowfish bowed slightly at the ragged applause waving his thin fingers in the air.

"Ain't this something, son?" Blowfish inquired of Carl.

"Is this gold?" Carl asked picking up his fork.

"Godammit," Blowfish complained hefting his own fork. "They still using this cheap gold plate crap? I specifically passed a bill for solid gold. Feels so much better when you're cutting a steak, wouldn't you agree?" A waiter approached head bowed, hands covering his privates. Carl ordered a bag of Korny Kurls.

"Well, what are you standing there for?" the Senator snarled at the waiter's confusion, "get the man his Kurls."

"Yes, sir!" the waiter scurried off.

"Korny Kurls," Blowfish said nodding his head. "I like that. Shows he has the common touch. Be sure to show him doing that in your interview, Sally."

"Oh, you bet, Senator," Sally said huskily resting her hand on Carl's knee. Carl looked uneasy especially as Sally's hand did a spider's dance up his leg. Soon busy fingers were at work on his zipper.

"Did you lose something?" Carl asked trying to be polite.

"Why, no," Sally said simulating smoldering passionate lust.

"What's wrong, Carl?" Sylvia asked.

"Uh, this woman's got her hand on my..."

"Oh, my," said Sally withdrawing her hand quickly, "I thought I was reaching in my purse."

"Is that so?" Sylvia said giving Sally a cold look. Sally feigned a smile. She couldn't wait to get Randolph's pathetic white trash wife out for some 'killer' shopping.

"Are you sick?" Sylvia asked sympathetically as a waiter hooked an IV into Wetlock's skinny little arm

"This is the only way I can eat," the Senator said.

"The little mutant's got no stomach or digestive tract for that matter," Blowfish grinned stuffing his mouth with Kobe beef tartare. "And all done to him by his own Daddy's toxic waste pollution."

"That's true," Wetlock smiled politely. "The pipe from Daddy's plant was mistakenly drained into our swimming pool instead of a nearby black neighborhood's water supply."

"I still don't think it was a mistake," Blowfish grinned.

"Why, you think my Daddy did it to his own child on purpose?" Wetlock asked in surprise.

"I'm not saying he did it. 'Twas probably a bunch of camel jockeys."

"So Randolph? That is your name isn't it, Randolph?" Wetlock addressed him.

"He also goes by Carl," Sylvia interjected.

"Carl's my favorite," Carl said.

"I named the boy Randolph and Randolph is what we're gonna use around here," growled Blowfish as he slurped his martini.

"So then," Wetlock leaned back in his chair, "Carl is your nickname?"

"I guess," Carl shrugged.

"So where have you been the last two to three decades, Randolph?"

"He was in prison with the Viet Cong."

"He looks remarkably young for a man who was in prison that long," Wetlock's eyes gleamed as he watched Blowfish squirm uncomfortably. Still, they were momentary allies. "So," he said switching tack, "I suppose you will be entering politics like your father? What will it be, Eustace, the mayoralty of your state's largest city, perhaps? Or a leading position in the local legislature?"

"Hell, no," Blowfish spat contemptuously, "I'm getting old. We don't have time for that shit. I'm thinking we launch him on Talk Radio."

"Give him his own show?" Cyrus replied in surprise.

"Why the hell not?" Blowfish smiled. "He wouldn't be the first big dumb fat lying asshole son of a bitch shooting off his nasty ignorant trap on national airwaves."

"But the boy's not fat, and besides," Wetlock added, "he seems none too loquacious."

"Hell, Cyrus, that's why God invented scriptwriters and fancy French restaurants," Blowfish snorted. "Boy doesn't even have to do nothing but read the cards aloud, eat, and shit."

"I suppose it's possible," Cyrus sniffed.

"Possible? Hell, it's a damned industry, and it's gonna get my boy elected president." Wetlock barely lifted his eyebrows at that news as he watched Carl eat his Korny Kurls. A president with the IQ of a Randolph certainly wouldn't be the first, second or even third.

"Okay, I'm finished," Blowfish said getting up from the table. "If you'll excuse us, Senator... Come on, boy, it's time to meet the folks who make your Daddy his living."

"Good afternoon, Senator Blowfish, I'm Willis Walter Allentot, representing the Association for..."

"Willis, you say?" Blowfish interrupted holding out his bony hand. Willis laid an immensely generous check on the Senator's uplifted palm.

"Senator, I heard you were efficient..." Willis started to gush.

"Yes, yes, yes," Blowfish interrupted him again. "Leave those laws, deregulations, and tax-breaks you want me to pass with my secretary, and we'll push them through the committee this week."

"A pleasure doing business with you, sir," Willis left smiling brightly.

"Next!" Blowfish called out as he added the check to a growing pile. An old woman tottered up leaning on her cane. Without looking, Blowfish stretched out his bony hand. The old woman, looking bewildered for a moment, smiled with confusion and took it. Yelping in fear, Blowfish practically crawled out of his wheelchair.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"I'm a constituent, Senator. I live in your state."

"Goddammit," Blowfish cried out to a small crowd of Suits who were in the corner throwing craps with Carl, "I pay you boys big money to keep out the Proles."

"But Senator..." the old lady quavered, "I need your help. They took away my Social Security."

"Now, lady," the Senator said in soft soothing tones as his Suits grabbed her by the arm, "we all have to make big sacrifices in these desperate hard times."

"But they raised the age of retirement to eighty three."

"Eighty three?" the Senator said looking puzzled. "How'd that happen?"

"It was in a bill you passed last week."

"I passed a bill like that?" the Senator said. "That's gonna kill me with the senior citizen lobby. How'd I do a thing like that?"

"I was already collecting benefits," the old woman wept. "And they took them away."

"You can bet I'll look in on it, Ma'am," the Senator said respectfully as his Suits drug her out the door. "The hell I will, crazy old bat," he murmured. "Everybody's got a hand out. Think the guvmint's gonna solve their problems. Next!" he barked. Another lobbyist trotted up holding a check. The Senator stretched out his bony hand.

"How'd you land a nice juicy fish like that anyway?" Sally asked Sylvia.

"Huh?" Sylvia asked looking away from the TV.

"You know," Sally elegantly indicated towards Carl with her nail file.

"Carl? I don't know," Sylvia shrugged thinking back to high school. "I wasn't that interested in boys, but he asked me to go to a movie with him. We got there, he was broke 'cause he'd spent his money on a motorcycle magazine. It got to be a habit after that."

"A Blowfish, broke?" Sally snickered wickedly with a greedy glance toward the long line of lobbyists waiting to see the Senator. "His Daddy's one of the richest men in Congress, and everyone in Congress is a multimillionaire at least."

"I just wish they'd let us go," Sylvia sighed turning back to the TV as Sally watched with barely concealed disdain. Obviously, this woman wasn't Blowfish material. She glanced distastefully towards Randolph who dressed like your average little bum. Still, with a three thousand dollar suit and a good haircut, he easily pass as the CEO of any major multinational financial conglomerate or even the President of Harvard for that matter.

"Wouldn't you like to go shopping?" Sally asked checking her watch. It was rush hour. The timing for an 'accident' couldn't be any better.

"With what?" Sylvia asked not taking her eyes off the TV. "We're broke."

"Don't be silly," Sally laughed. "The Senator has accounts at all the best stores. It was his idea. Now come on, wouldn't you like some nice new clothes instead of those embarrassing rags you're wearing?"

Sylvia couldn't help but blush. She was well aware of all the mean and spiteful looks she was getting because she looked so average. Well, what the heck, if they had to be around this Blowfish creep, they might as well get something out of it.

"Okay," she agreed.

"Wonderful," Sally smiled. She had already decided what sort of wedding ring Randolph would buy her after a suitable mourning period of, let's say, three days.

"Normally, I'd use a car but the Metro is so convenient," Sally gushed as she preceded Sylvia down the escalator. The subway station was crowded with hordes of pinch-faced lower level government workers holding their subway tokens tightly. Sally maneuvered Sylvia just to the edge of the tracks. As the train came thundering in, Sally shoved at Sylvia viciously just as Sylvia stepped to the side to pick up a penny she saw lying on the platform. Sally flew forward and disappeared under the train. No one said anything. Suicides were a rapidly increasing occurrence these days.

"Is this the right train?" Sylvia asked looking behind her for the reporter but Sally had disappeared. Sylvia waited for a few minutes, but after a bit, she shrugged and left the station the way she'd came.

Syl was just approaching the Capitol grounds lawn when she saw Carl running across the grass pursued by a gang of large gray squirrels.

"I thought you were going shopping?" Blowfish said clearly disappointed to see her alive. "Damn fool," he added looking towards his running Randolph. "I told him not to mess with those squirrels. Come on, Son," Blowfish called, "we got to get to that weapons test. It's gonna start in twenty minutes.

"Boy, those squirrels sure are mean," Carl said slightly winded. as the squirrels chattered at him angrily from the trees. He got in the car. The Senator was talking on the phone.

"Shit," he cursed throwing the phone at the floor, "I told you we should have hurried. Now the President wants to see me."

"The President of the United States?" Sylvia asked in awe.

"Yep, it's the skinny little low-life lying son-of-a-bitch himself," Blowfish said clearly unhappy. He directed the driver to enter a parking garage and drive to the bottom level. "There he is," Blowfish fumed as their limo approached an even longer limo parked in an unlighted corner of the garage.

"Okay, Son, let's go meet the fucking President," Blowfish sighed as he was helped out of the car by the driver. Sylvia followed even though she hadn't been specifically invited. You didn't get a chance to meet the President just any old day. As they approached the long, black limo, a secret service Suit appeared from the shadows and opened the door.

"Mr. President?" Blowfish called inside. The ghostly echo of faint laughter greeted him.

"I'm not going in there," Sylvia stated feeling the icy touch of fear.

"Suit yourself," Blowfish sneered dismissively stepping inside with the help of his aides. Carl looked back at Sylvia.

"What's wrong, Syl?" he asked.

"I don't know why the President has got to meet us in a parking garage," Sylvia said.

"Me neither," Carl said getting in.

"Awghh," someone cried out in pain from an even darker corner of the garage. Frightened, Sylvia backed into a waiting Suit.

"What's going on over there?" she whispered.

"Probably an agency related disappearance," the Suit said dispassionately. "It's a popular garage." There was a final gasp followed by a gurgling sound. Sylvia quickly followed Carl into the black presidential limo.

It was dark. There was a faint smell of moldy leather. A dull red light glowed as if from afar.

"Carl?" she called her voice disappearing into the murk as if into blotting paper.

"Can I help you?" a somber voice intoned from the gloom. Sylvia jumped hitting her head on the padded ceiling.

"I'm trying to find the President," she stammered.

"Just around the corner to your right," the voice intoned. Sylvia kept moving. She turned the corner. A tall, gangly looking man with thin hair sat with his arm around the Senator whispering into his ear. Blowfish looked bored.

"I thought you weren't coming?" Blowfish said unpleasantly.

"Is this the President?" Sylvia demanded.

"Yep, this is him, girl. Want his autograph?"

"Mr. President, someone's getting murdered right out there," Sylvia said rapidly jabbing her finger behind her.

"Oh my goodness," the President said in that famous grandmotherly way of his, "are those Secret Service men squabbling amongst themselves again?" He picked up his phone. "Hello, Marvin, what's this about a murder? Oh. Oh, I see. Well, tell them to try to keep it down. There," he said smiling at Sylvia in his absent-minded endearing way, "do you feel better?" Not waiting for an answer, the President resumed whispering into the Senator's ear.

"Ain't this something?" Carl asked excitedly as he watched a bank of miniature TVs. "Look, you can watch cartoons and motorcycle races the same time. Hey, Syl, you want something to drink? They got regular, sugar-free with caffeine, old-fashioned, and sugar free with caffeine diet cola." The President's phone emitted a mild buzz. He interrupted his whispering to pick it up.

"What? One moment, Senator," he said with an odd giggle. "I think we've concluded our business for today." Reaching to his rear, the President extracted a large canvas bag stuffed with banknotes and set it on the Senator's knobby little knees. "I daresay you'll find this useful. Have a nice day."

"It was nice meeting you, Mr. President," Sylvia said as Blowfish hustled them out of the limo.

"Let's get a move on, girl, we're gonna miss those tests."

"What's that for?" Carl asked referring to the bag as they walked back to the Senator's limo.

"Just a little donation to my campaign fund," Blowfish said thrusting the cash at a Suit. "Count this, and put it in my Cayman Islands account. It should be six hundred thousand bucks exact."

"Yes, sir," the Suit responded taking the bag. Sylvia's eyes darted fearfully to the murky corner where she'd heard the murder. Dark, shadowy, suited shapes were sharing out the victim's clothes.

Preceded by howling police cars, the Senator's limo sped out into the Virginian countryside at high speed.

"This is fun!" Carl yelled his head out the window tongue hanging like a dog.

"That so?" said Blowfish preoccupied with one of his financial accounts on the limo's computer. Tires screeching, the limo lurched down a narrow paved lane.

"Yes, sir," Carl grinned saluting the soldiers as they sped through through a massive guarded gate.

"Would you like to see our menu?" a white uniformed Air Force waiter asked the Senator and his guests.

"Yeah," said the Senator checking his watch. He hadn't eaten since lunch. "Get me a rare steak."

"Madam?"

"I'm stuffed."

"I'll take a bag of Korny Kurls and a pop," Carl said.

"Korny Kurls?" the white uniformed Air Force waiter asked.

"And pronto," snarled the Senator. Saluting, the waiter ran.

As the Senator ate and drank, Sylvia watched the crowd. They were surrounded by dozens of blue-haired old women draped in expensive dead animal skins accompanied by older men in imported Italian golf shirts and lurid lime green pants.

"Boy, I wonder where he's going?" Carl remarked as a jet blasted off into the clouds.

"Probably off to get your Korny Kurls," Blowfish smiled. He wasn't wrong.

"Why, Eustace Blowfish!" a brassy voice exclaimed loud enough to hurt Sylvia's ears. She turned. A tall, gawky looking woman draped in expensive dead animal skins and sporting tennis togs grinned from several yards away.

"Why, Mrs. Coffee," Blowfish beamed turning to face her, "you'll excuse me if I don't rise. 'Survived an assassination attempt this morning."

"Another ?" Mrs. Coffee grinned. "I swear, Eustace, you must have more lives than a Mississippi Mud Skank."

"Do you remember my son?" Blowfish smiled proudly.

"Son?" Mrs. Coffee smiled in some confusion taking Carl's ear in one of her enormous hands. "Which son is this?"

"Why surely you remember Randolph? He and your daughter were playmates at one time. Loved to torture cats and hide in the closet together."

"Playmates?" Mrs. Coffee said with a forced smile on her face as she desperately tried to think back. Randolph? But that boy was dead, thank God. She'd read his obituary decades ago.

"He's been in prison all this time with those damned filthy Viet Cong."

"Really?" said Mrs. Coffee finally understanding the situation. The Senator had finally cracked. "Well, it's so nice seeing you again, Randolph. Candace will be so thrilled."

"And how is your lovely and talented daughter?" Blowfish asked with interest. By god, you couldn't do much better on the social scale than marrying a Coffee even if the family was close to broke.

"Oh, she's getting divorced and under medication as usual but otherwise, doing splendidly," Mrs. Coffee smiled. "Eustace, you should come visit us at the estate."

"Why Mrs. Coffee, what an excellent idea," Blowfish grinned. "Why not today?" They could easily dispose of Sylvia on the grounds of the vast Coffee estate and Candace and Randolph would have a chance to get reacquainted. He checked his watch. "Hmm, there's just time to lay a few bets on the weapons tests. Will you join me, dear?"

"Why, have you got any good tips?" she smiled.

"Is the Pope Catholic?" Blowfish grinned.

"Carl?"

What?" Carl asked dipping his hand into a bag of Korny Kurls.

"I think we should leave," Syl whispered with a careful look at the surrounding Suits.

"What the heck you want to leave for?" Carl asked. "We're having a good time."

"Well maybe you are because that Senator is acting like you're his long lost son and all, but he's been giving me nothing but dirty looks. Don't you remember he was going to have us murdered in the cornfield?"

"That's before he found out we were family."

"We aren't family, honey. It's just 'cause he got hit in the head real hard. He could wake up tomorrow and be back to his old nasty self real fast."

"Okay, okay," her husband agreed. "Just let me see the weapons test and get some more Korny Kurls; then we'll sneak out of here."

"You promise?" she asked highly relieved.

"Swear on a stack of motorcycle magazines," Carl said raising his Korny Kurl-stained hand.

"So, Eustace," Mrs. Coffee turned after having shoved herself to the head of the line at the betting window, "just who is that rather average looking woman sitting with your son, another one of your abused and underpaid servants?" Blowfish clenched his sphincter muscles dreading this moment.

"Uh, that's Randolph's wife."

"Wife?"

"The little fool went and got married," Blowfish gulped. "Look, don't worry about her. We can have her disappeared on your estate. God knows, it wouldn't be the first time."

"Well, no," Mrs. Coffee smiled thoughtfully, "it wouldn't. We Coffees have been burying someone or other on our grounds since long before the Civil War. It's no wonder our soil is so fertile for tobacco cultivation."

"Anyway, him being married is not my worst problem," Blowfish said as he made his bets. "The boy's changed."

"His behavior is even worse than it was?"

"Don't I wish," sighed the Senator. "No, the boy's gotten common. He's actually nice to people. And to think how well I had him trained."

"Oh, Eustace," Mrs. Coffee sympathized. It was so difficult to train the children of the rich and powerful to that perfect combination of good mannered, yet selfish cold-bloodedness. Not surprisingly, they often failed. "Now, don't you worry. I know all the best psychiatrists. We'll get your boy back to normal soon enough."

"I'd be forever in your debt," the Senator said wrapping her cold, icy hand in his.

"Oh, Eustace," she giggled coquettishly, "I'd be counting on that."

"If only I hadn't let that judge send him to Vietnam," the Senator mused. "Oh, well, the good Lord gave me a second chance. Nothing's gonna stop us this time. By the way," he smiled showing his thin little sharp teeth, "when you place your bets, I understand our new defense systems contain some flaws."

"Oh, Eustace," she giggled putting down a bundle of hundred dollar bills.

The Air Force Band was just launching into its rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner" when Blowfish and Mrs. Coffee returned to take their seats. Although the waiters, clerks, and other hirelings all stood at attention heads bowed with their hands covering their privates as required by law, the audience remained seated as standing, bowing, and genuflecting for the flag was now only constitutionally mandated for those who could not meet certain income guidelines. Sylvia and Carl got to their feet.

"Son, son," Blowfish waved frantically, "you're gonna embarrass me. We all have got plenty of money."

"And we all do what everybody else does," Sylvia said stubbornly as she stood there one hand on her heart and the other holding Carl.

"You see what I mean?" Blowfish whispered desperately as members of the other tables stared.

"Children," Mrs. Coffee frowned.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, Guardians of the Empire," the loudspeakers blared, "we give you our third event in this year's annual weapon's test series. The betting window is now closed." The crowd clapped with polite restraint. Carl whistled and stamped his feet.

"That's the spirit, son," Blowfish grinned with a defiant stare at anyone of lower rank that was around.

"Ladies, and Gentlemen, we are here again to witness the successes (clapping) and failures (clapping) of the mighty American Military Industrial Complex. May the best bets win!" The crowd settled back to watch.

A tremendously large flat bed trailer was pulled onto the field by an enormous diesel tractor followed by a team of marching black suited mechanics. As the crowed waited impatiently, swarming mechanics removed the red, white, and blue shrouds to reveal the latest version of the B-12 land to air missile. The B 12 was the latest in a series of specially designed missiles that had been commissioned by the Defense Department in response to a famous paper published by the former chair of the Acme Missile Corporation who had pointed out that the United States Missile Defense System was helpless in the face of sustained attacks by swarms of killer bees. The B12 was developed in response to that threat by the best minds in military missile defense technology. As the missile began to raise itself into launch position, it got stuck half way up. Those with bets on failure cheered.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the loudspeaker intoned after several minutes, "there will be a slight delay as our crew amends a few unforeseen technical problems due to the incredible sophistication of our amazing technology." The crowd clapped politely and ordered more drinks.

"Jeez, this sure is taking a long time," Carl complained.

"Now, son," Blowfish admonished him gently, "we got all day. Why don't you just sit back and have yourself a little drink?"

"He doesn't drink," Sylvia informed the Senator.

"He used to drink like a goddamn fish," Blowfish informed her back. "Don't tell me the boy's forgotten how to hold his liquor? You see what I'm going through?" he whispered to Mrs. Coffee. She nodded sympathetically and knocked back a glass of champagne.

"Waiter!" Blowfish cried. "Get this boy a beer."

"He doesn't drink," Sylvia insisted.

"I guess one little beer wouldn't hurt me," Carl said somewhat defiantly. Blowfish couldn't help but smile. The waiter brought a Deluxe Koors.

"Now have yourself a snort," Blowfish ordered. Worried, Sylvia looked on. If they were going to try to make a run for it, alcohol was going to cloud what little sense Carl had. Carl sipped and made a face.

"What's wrong?" Blowfish demanded.

"Tastes like something I'd put in a car radiator," Carl said pushing the beer away.

"You don't like beer anymore?" Blowfish said his cruel, flabby face etched with disappointment. "Then what about a little champagne? How 'bout some of Daddy's single malt scotch? My god, you can't get any better."

"I'll just take a pop, thank you," Carl said.

"It's all right, Eustace," Mrs. Coffee whispered in his ear to console him. "Maybe the boy would prefer heroin. Some of us do."

"Goddammit, I want my son to be an all-American booze hound."

"Patience, dear, patience."

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" the loudspeakers blared with a flourish of martial music, "let the weapons tests begin again!"

The crowd watched in eager anticipation as the B12, lurching and jerking, slowly raised to its final firing position. Serious money had been wagered. "Ten, nine, eight..." the countdown continued. "...two, one, fire!" The crowed clapped and cheered. Nothing happened. An officer ran out into the field waving his military automatic. Angry words were shouted, several shots fired, and to the applause of the crowd, the head mechanic's body was drug off. The officer waved his pistol menacingly, and the next ranking mechanic was ordered to take his deceased superior's place. Appearing shaken and pale, the new lead mechanic stepped to the control board and pushed a button; again, nothing. He pushed button after button as the officer advanced aiming his gun. Panicked, the mechanic grabbed a long wrench from an open toolbox and starting beating the controls. The B12 shuddered and shook. Fire exploded from its lifters. There was a blast of steam and smoke.

"Ladies and gentlemen!," the loudspeakers blared with excitement, "we have liftoff!"

Some cheered and some moaned as the B12 rose slowly at first, then faster as its enormously expensive rockets lifted tons of useless weight into the air. In seconds, the B12 was soaring into the sky scattering birds and planes. Suddenly, it staggered. The engines coughed then shut off and the enormous mass of metal started falling back to earth. The crowd screamed, but then the rocket's engines re-fired with new enthusiasm, and the missile blasted up into the sky where it looped, did a figure eight, and exploded almost a mile high. Half of the crowd cheered in relief, the other half moaned as they all huddled under their tables as missile debris rained the field.

"So Eustace," Mrs Coffee asked, "I'm confused, was this test a failure or success?"

"You didn't see it hit any killer bees, did you? You win," Eustace smiled.

"Oh thank you, Eustace," Mrs. Coffee beamed throwing her arms around the Senator's neck. She ran off to collect her winnings.

"Wow!" Carl exclaimed having retrieved a piece of the smoking missile, a small complicated looking mechanism stamped: 'nuclear trigger.'

"Uh, maybe we ought to give that over to this gentlemen here," Blowfish said tossing it to the nearest busboy.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the loudspeakers blared once more, "the Department of Offense under the proud sponsorship of the government of the United States and allied transnational corporations is pleased to announce to you a special preview of the new Sneak fighter bomber jet aircraft!"

"The Sneak?!" the excited crowd instantaneously breaking into excited murmurs. Lime-legged seniors immediately got to their feet. They were going to show the Sneak, a milestone in the annals of American offense technology? Why with the Sneak you could sneak up on anyone, sneakily bomb the shit out of them, and sneak back home in time for dinner—it was the ultimate in hi-tech, lo-risk warfare.

"Yes, the Sneak!" the loudspeakers continued proudly as a flock of technicians marched behind a tractor pulling an empty trailer. "There she is, folks, isn't she beautiful? Check out those sleek lines, the latest in imported parts, those heaving engines, those thrusting missiles. What a marvel to behold!"

"Yes, yes," the crowd agreed excitedly breaking into spontaneous applause.

"I don't see anything," Sylvia admitted puzzled.

"That's the whole point," Blowfish responded with unconcealed condescension.

"I don't see nothing either," Carl springing to his feet and walking towards the Sneak.

"Where you going, son?" Blowfish wanted to know, but Carl was already over the low wall that divided the testing grounds from the spectators. Whistles were blown, alarms sounded. A white suited squad of military policemen appeared.

"Don't you lay a hand on my Randolph!" Blowfish screeched hysterically. They drew back allowing Carl to pass.

"Nice day, huh," Carl smiled to the soldiers as he made a beeline for the trailer. White suited technicians were making last minute mechanical adjustments to the invisible plane.

"So what you doing there?" Carl asked a mechanic who was twisting something with a three hundred thousand dollar wrench designed and manufactured especially for the Sneak by FCX , the multi-billion dollar defense corporation owned by a group of anonymous Italian millionaires.

"Uh..," the technician stammered.

"How can you see what you're working on," Carl asked, "you got special X ray eye goggles?

"Can I be of service, sir, Mr. Senator's son?" asked the Chief Sneak technician running up.

"I was asking this guy if he was using special X-ray goggles to see his work," Carl smiled.

"Uh, yeah, that's right," the head technician blurted quickly.

"Great, can I borrow them?" Carl wanted to know holding out his hand.

"Uh, they're, they're...."

"They're invisible!" piped up another worker.

"Yeah, that's right," agreed the Chief rubbing his forehead in relief. "They're invisible, just like the Sneak."

"All right!" Carl smiled broadly, "So let me borrow them for a sec." The technician glanced uneasily towards his superior.

"Uh, no, no uh, can do, sir," the Chief sweated. "You see, those goggles are specially designed for Don here."

"Yeah," Don piped up, "they're specially crafted just for me. Only I can wear them or, uh, otherwise, uh, you go blind."

"Yes, sir, we can't have you going blind on us, now can we sir?" the Chief Technician smiled broadly showing all his teeth.

"Oh," Carl's face fell, "guess I'll have to feel around with my hands".

"I don't know if that's a...." the Chief started with a frightened expression on his face as Carl started feeling around like a blind man at a fruit counter.

"Uh, you really shouldn't be doing that, sir," said the Chief trying to get between Carl and the Sneak, "you could get hurt."

"So where's the engine?" Carl wanted to know.

"Please don't touch it," begged the Chief.

"I just want to..." Carl began reaching past him. Then he stopped and just stood there feeling around. "You know something?" he said to the sweating technician who was looking very pale.

"What?" the Chief said in a very small voice closely resembling a whisper.

"I can't feel a thing."

"Well, no, sir, of course you don't," the Chief stammered, "you've got to be wearing specially designed gloves". Carl stood for a moment thinking hard. Suddenly he smiled.

"Oh, I get it. Hey Syl!!" he yelled waving his arms. "There's no plane! There ain't nothing. These guys are just playing a joke."

"A joke?" the crowd murmured in shock.

"Shit," groaned the Chief as his men stood there looking embarrassed and silly.

"No plane?" The crowd was in a dither. Lime-legged old men stood and wandered aimlessly to the bar. One woman laughed hysterically, another cried. No plane? Blowfish sat there as stunned as the rest but not for the same reason. What was his son doing to him?

"Is it true?" Mrs Coffee leaned over to ask in a shocked whisper.

"True?" blurted the Senator. "True? No, not a bit of it, the boy's out of his head." Of course it was true, the Senator fumed inwardly. The Pentagon was always pulling stunts like this. What the hell did they need with an invisible plane, anyway? They could pulverize most of the countries in this world with surplus junk from World War Two.

"It's not true?" Mrs. Coffee repeated exceedingly relieved.

"It's not true," the crowd repeated with excitement their faith in the military industrial complex restored.

"'Course it's not true," Blowfish got up and smiled. "The boy's mistaken. Those Viet Cong have gone and done some weird communist brainwashing to his head." The crowd applauded politely as Blowfish whispered orders to his Suits.

After the Sneak took off and performed several acrobatic aerial maneuvers for the astonished crowd, the Senator left for Foxtrot, Mrs. Coffee's huge ancestral estate on the banks of the Potomac south of the sprawling city of Washington.

Foxtrot, a land-grant from a British King to his barber for 'services' rendered originally began as a tobacco growing enterprise. After the land's fertility had collapsed, it became a breeding enterprise for slaves. Yes, the Foxtrot notch on a less than black ear was famous throughout the pre-Civil War South.

The Civil War, however, put an end to the slave business, and Mrs. Coffee's maternal great, great, grandfather was about to lose the estate in bankruptcy. Luckily, his wife, Belle, had an idea. Convincing the Colonel to feign death, the 'Widow' Belle would snag herself a rich Yankee industrialist to save Foxtrot. Once the fool Yankee's property was safely willed to her, she and the Colonel would bump off the carpetbagger and live happily ever after.

So it was that the Colonel went to live in a lonely cabin in the Virginia swamps while Belle went husband hunting. It didn't take her too long as the entire region was swarming with Yankees rich with war profits buzzing over the broken bones of the agricultural South. In fact, a certain Moses Coffee hailing from Boston came riding into Foxtrot one day well aware that the property would be auctioned soon and was determined to own it. Belle, watching the rich arrogant, albeit handsome, Yankee from behind her curtains was at first furious and could barely resist the impulse to have the impertinent scoundrel whipped from her estate, but she calmed quickly realizing this could be her opportunity.

Coffee pounded on the front door demanding to see her. She feigned illness and went to her chambers. Imperiously pushing aside her ancient servant, Moses Coffee strode into Belle's bedroom eager to examine the estate's books. Belle happened to be naked, writhing around her palatial feather bed feigning fever. Moses raped her as three witnesses watched quietly from Belle's closet. Under threat of exposure, the Yankee proposed marriage.

Once married and safely Coffee's property, he took the opportunity to vent his fury on Belle for having been trapped.

"You just try and hit me, you Yankee trash!" Belle said defiantly once he cornered her in a back room of the house. Moses dropped his riding crop and raped her again. That evening, after a drunken evening of ribald debauchery and passionate lovemaking, Belle, impressed by Coffee's Yankee crafty brutality and now utterly in love, confessed her plot to have him killed.

"That you, Belle Honey?" the Colonel asked from behind the cabin door. Coffee pulled both triggers of the double barreled shotgun as Belle hung on his shoulder. They didn't bother to look inside. Moses smiled, lit his cigar, and tossed the match onto the roof of the little shanty and arm in arm, he and his bride watched the flames.

Foxtrot was a vast estate encompassing thousands of acres of leased out crop land and desolate swamp. It also had excellent access to the sea via the Potomac. After the Civil War, tariffs, designed to protect industrialist's profits and to some extent, American industry, were quite high. Coffee made himself an incredible fortune smuggling untaxed contraband through the backways and bayous of Foxtrot into the post war South and beyond. Although Belle finally poisoned Coffee after finding him diddling a pretty young black servant in her bedroom, she did have several daughters by the man. She wept as she peed on his grave.

Succeeding generations of Coffees revealed a tendency to breed daughters who were all strong willed and often psychotic. Still, ever since the end of Prohibition and the pummeling of the Great Depression, Coffee fortunes had been in a downward spiral. Although the land had finally healed itself, there were dwindling opportunities these days in tobacco. And as yet, Foxtrot was still too far from the megalopolis of Washington to offer much opportunity for land speculation. Still, the present Mrs. Coffee did make some modest millions operating a stud farm for valuable racing horses. In physical assets, they were still far from poor.

"This is your home?" Sylvia turned to Mrs. Coffee as the limo cruised through hundreds of grassy acres towards a distant mansion.

"Yes," said Mrs. Coffee, her eyebrows knitted with some concern. An ambulance stood in the field surrounded by servants and emergency personnel. Rolling down the window, Mrs. Coffee called out to an aging black man dressed in a jockey's uniform. "Sambo, what in the hell is going on!?"

"It was a helicopter," the old man pointed his eyes round with fear, "they fired machine guns on Ms. Candace."

"Oh my god, it's that damned ex-husband of hers again," Mrs. Coffee explained to her guests. "Is she alright?" she asked Sambo.

"The Ms. Candace was upset. They're giving her more drugs at the house, but we lost a couple servants."

"Well as long as the girl wasn't hurt," Mrs. Coffee said in some relief as the window rolled up.

"Any chance he's coming back?" Blowfish asked ready to request an Air Force fighter squadron.

"Oh, I doubt it," Mrs. Coffee fumed. "His attempts are really never sustained. It's that South American indiscipline."

"Tell me about it," agreed the Senator who had been frustrated time and again by the fact that the typical Latin American dictatorship would always fizzle out just as total victory was at hand. "Damn spics can't stick to anything," he grumbled.

"Candace!" Mrs. Coffee bellowed as they entered the main hall.

"Whoa, smells like somebody had a good dump," Carl grinned wrinkling his nose.

"You having problems with the plumbing in this old box?" Blowfish asked.

"Candace!!," Mrs. Coffee screamed. "Have you been decorating the walls again?" She turned to her guests. "The poor dear, she gets upset, she smears excrement on all the walls."

"What's excrement?" Carl whispered to his wife.

"A fancy word for poop," Sylvia whispered back.

"She rubs poop on the walls?" Carl guffawed.

"Now, Randolph," Blowfish admonished him, "let's keep in mind that Candace is wealthy and well-bred, and as such, well, she gets to do certain things other people can't. However, if you yourself feel like rubbing your shit on the walls, by all means proceed."

"Really?" Carl asked eyeing a particularly white wall.

"Don't you even think about it," Sylvia hissed angrily in his ear.

"Candace!" Mrs. Coffee yelled again. An ancient black woman appeared on roller skates pushing a wheeled cart.

"Yes, ma'am?" she inquired.

"Jemima, where's Candace?" The old woman bristled slightly. Her real name was Mary Ellen, but Mrs. Coffee always addressed her servants as Jemima and Sambo. It was family tradition.

"We gave her a shot. She was rubbing her shit all over the walls again."

"How long will she be out?" Mrs. Coffee wanted to know.

"You know Candace," Jemima said wearily checking her watch, "not long enough. I expect we might get a peaceful thirty minutes."

"Well, when she awakes, tell her we have an 'eligible' guest."

"Eligible?" Jemima repeated with a pitying look. "Someone must need money awful bad."

"That will be enough of your insolence!" Mrs. Coffee sharply rebuked the old woman who had skated off. "The old bitch. In the old days, we'd have had her drowned. Still, she does so well with Candace, and her wages are cheap."

"Servants," Blowfish harumphed in agreement as they followed Mrs. Coffee past wrecked furniture and streaked wallpaper.

"It's too bad, really, about the odor," Mrs. Coffee said drawing their attention to several of Candace's more interesting efforts. "I think she shows a certain artistic flair. I've tried to get her to use paints. But will she? Oh, no, 'shit is my medium;' her exact words."

"Sounds pretty strange to me," Sylvia said in a low voice only Carl could hear. He giggled nervously.

"Would you like anything to drink?" Mrs. Coffee asked unlocking a massive barred door leading to a Candace-proofed parlor. She sat herself on an uncomfortable looking antique settee as Blowfish lowered his bulk on a valuable chair.

"Does a bear shit in the woods?" Blowfish smiled. Mrs. Coffee smiled politely at the Senator's little joke and rang her bell. Jemima skated in with her cart stacked high with liquor bottles.

"We'll take..." Mrs. Coffee began.

"Now you know I don't like drunken white people," Jemima admonished her and promptly skated off.

"I'd have her strangled in a minute," Mrs. Coffee muttered, "but do you know how hard it is to find a servant with a nursing degree in criminal psychiatry who will work for less than minimum wage?"

"Still," Blowfish continued looking longingly at the liquor cart, "I like to see my servants show a little respect. Have you tried beating her up?"

"Oh, my, Eustace," Mrs. Coffee practically blushed, "Candace's ex-husband pummelled the old biddy several times, but since she's the only person who can really work with Candace, he didn't dare make a serious impression on her."

"What you need are professionals," the Senator added dryly. "I'll send somebody over."

"I would be so grateful," Mrs. Coffee said unable to stand it anymore. "Is someone going to fix me a drink?"

"I'll do it," Carl said eagerly pouring something from every bottle into each glass.

"My, that looks interesting," Mrs. Coffee said as Carl handed her a glass. "What did you fix me, dear?"

"I don't know," Carl shrugged.

"Well, as long as it's alcohol," Mrs. Coffee smiled knocking back a good slug. She coughed politely her face flushed. "Would you get me a cigarette?"

"Not bad, boy," Blowfish tried to smile after choking back his own drink. "You make a good little bartender."

"Want another?" Carl asked.

"Maybe later," the Senator belched painfully, his guts on fire.

"Mother?" a beautifully modulated female voice asked from above. Sylvia gasped. A stunningly beautiful young woman wearing only a negligee sat perched at the top of the grand staircase. Carl waved, and the Senator had to cross his legs quickly to conceal the first erection he'd had this year.

"Why, Candace, there you are," Mrs. Coffee cried out cheerfully trying to focus her eyes. "Why don't you come down and meet our 'eligible' guests?"

Candace smiled loftily and descended the staircase like a queen. Sylvia couldn't help but stare. Candace was the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. How was she to know that the heiress was in reality no more beautiful than any average woman except that an incredibly large amount of money had been spent on a whole hell of a lot of plastic surgery? Sylvia felt small-breasted and plain.

"You remember your Uncle Blowfish, don't you, dear?" Mrs. Coffee smirked enjoying the sight of the Senator attempting to shake Candace's hand while holding a pillow over his groin. She was well aware of the effect her daughter had on men.

"Not really," Candace smiled dazzlingly bending over to shake the Senator's hand while simultaneously treating him to a sight of some excellent breast enhancement. If Candace was aware of anything, she was as aware as her mother as to her effect on men. "Is this our eligible guest?"

"Oh, don't I..." Blowfish almost blurted but he reversed himself, "actually, the eligible guest is my son, Randolph."

"Randolph?" Candace purred attractively turning to Carl. But Carl had turned his back to them all and was playing at the liquor cart. Candace pouted and cleared her throat delicately.

"You want a drink?" Carl turned handing Candace a tall glass.

"Why, certainly," Candace gushed in the grand yet subtle manner of a true southern belle. "How kind, Mother, wasn't that kind of him? It was so kind of him; such a polite, 'eligible' man." She daintily raised the glass to her enchanting, pouting, surgically enhanced lips and drank.

"Candace, darling," Mrs. Coffee suddenly realized besotted as she was "should you be mixing that with your drugs?"

"Mother, are you saying a drink made by Randolph's hands could possibly be unsafe?" Candace raised her carefully plucked eyebrows in disbelief. She paused, her expression at first one of puzzlement and then choked.

"Are you all right, dear?" Mrs. Coffee inquired.

"I think," Candace said uncertainly swaying like a sapling in a gentle wind. "Mother, does he know Carlos?"

"I don't think so, dear."

"I suppose I'm safe then," Candace smiled queasily and took 'Randolph' by the hand. "Did Mother tell you I'm an artist?"

"Yes,dear," Mrs. Coffee smiled, "we smelled it on the way in."

"Oh," Candace waved dismissively, "those are just sketches. I'm talking about my serious efforts. Would you like to see my studio?" They followed her upstairs.

"Voila!" Candace announced entering a huge conservatory lit with natural light.

"Jeez," Carl said once he could make out the shapes, "aren't those bones?"

'They are," Candace smiled stepping to the center of the room grandly. All about her stood piles of yellowed human bones glued together in various arrangements.

"All excavated from the estate," Mrs. Coffee bent over to whisper in the Senator's ear.

"What do you think?" Candace asked clearly expecting fulsome praise.

"I like it," Blowfish clapped enthusiastically.

"Randolph?" Candace asked stepping up to Carl in a provocative fashion.

"That's kind of weird," Carl admitted pointing to a tall arrangement of stacked skulls.

"You like it?" Candace beamed, "I call it 'Totem'. I was thinking of painting it fluorescent pink."

"Aren't you worried about ghosts?" Carl asked.

"This one is my favorite," Mrs. Coffee announced going up to a particular piece that showed a large rib cage with the skeleton of a baby inside.

"I call it 'Indigestion'," Candace giggled mellifluously.

"You know," the Senator said standing back thoughtfully, "I kind of like that one too. What do you think, Randolph?"

"I don't know," Carl shrugged giving Sylvia a glance. Sylvia, who had gotten over the initial shock of Candace's good looks, was now pissed.

"I think it's pretty sick," Syl stated unequivocally.

"Yeah, and who died and made you an art critic?" Blowfish asked, sarcasm etched in his cruel toothy smile. "Candace, consider it sold."

"You want to buy it?" Candace gasped.

"How do I make out the check?" Blowfish smiled reaching for his checkbook.

"Oh my god," Candace gushed excitedly to her Mother.

"Made the check out to the Candace Coffee Medical Trust Fund," Mrs. Coffee advised.

"And for how much?" Blowfish asked.

"Oh, I don't know," Candace almost danced she was so excited, "ten million?"

"Ten million?" Blowfish blanched. Even though he was going to put this on his Senatorial expense account, ten million was pushing it.

"Too little?" Candace asked. "Mother, help me. I don't know how to bargain like a shop keeper."

"Well, darling," Mrs. Coffee said watching the Senator's expression, "ten million's a bit much."

"Then you decide," Candace smiled angelically at the Senator.

"My pleasure," the Senator smiled. He scribbled in ten thousand and handed the check to Mrs. Coffee.

"Why thank you, Eustace, that is so generous," Mrs. Coffee smiled.

"It's the best we can do, darling, they've cut our damned expense accounts again," Blowfish smiled showing his narrow sharp teeth.

"Oh, I am so deliriously happy," Candace said and now she really did dance. "I feel as if I was just drugged."

"Could we go?" Sylvia asked. She felt ill.

"What's the rush?" Blowfish sneered. Carl had picked up a couple of femur bones.

"They make excellent dildos," Candace swooped close to Sylvia as she waltzed gracefully about her sculptures. "Take one home if you like. I have a feeling you're going to need a dildo," she giggled, "--after I take your man."

"Would anyone like another drink?" Mrs. Coffee asked hopefully.

"I, Mother, feel like a swim. Wouldn't you like to see me swim, Randolph?" Candace asked Carl alluringly.

"I, uh, we most certainly would, wouldn't we, son?" Blowfish assured her eagerly.

"I guess," Carl said noncommittally.

"We don't have anything to wear," Sylvia informed them quickly. The last thing she wanted to see right now was Candace in a swim suit.

"We have suits for all sizes in the dressing rooms by the pool," Mrs. Coffee smiled.

"This would like nice on you," Jemima suggested holding out something slinky and black for Sylvia.

"I don't know," Sylvia said doubtfully taking a look at the skimpy creation. It was one of Candaces' castoffs and had cost the equivalent of a month's rent for the average luxury apartment.

"It makes an average figure look pretty good," the maid winked. "Don't let that Candace fool you, honey. That figure of hers, it's mostly her clothes."

Carl, paddling around, was just recuperating after a particularly bad belly flop when Sylvia walked in. He was so surprised at the sight of her he started to go under.

"Well, that certainly suits her," Mrs. Coffee remarked in an extremely nasty tone.

"I guess it does," Blowfish said surprised.

"What are you staring at?" Sylvia couldn't help but say to Carl who was now grabbing the side of the pool with his tongue hanging out like a dog. Naturally slow, he was feeling urges in the swimsuit region that he wasn't used to feeling.

"You're sure looking good, Syl," he grinned like a sex-starved goat.

"Is that so?" she responded flirtatiously. She too was feeling some urges she didn't usually feel mostly because most of the time she was tired, hungry, worried, and scared. Had anyone ever explained to Carl about the birds and the bees?

"You want to race?" he challenged.

"You sure?" she asked. Didn't he remember she'd once been on the Lincoln High swimming team?

"Ready, set, go!" he yelled thrashing off towards the other end. Sylvia took her time, arranged her hair, and then dived gracefully from the end of the pool. In four strokes, she had caught him up and was swimming circles around him. Next thing she knew, Carl was all over her like an octopus putting his hands in places he had never shown the slightest interest. Surprised, she held his head under water till he calmed down a little.

"What are you doing?" she asked him from the other end of the pool.

"I don't know," he shrugged feeling kind of surprised at how he felt himself.

"Well, you don't do stuff like that where other people are watching," she said her face pink.

"So where do you do it, and just what the heck was I doing anyway?"

"People call it making babies."

"Babies," he said his nose all wrinkled. "Who the heck wants one of them?"

"Oh, Carl, some people..." she started to say, but the last thing Carl wanted was a baby. He'd lost interest and swum away.

He was probably right she realized sort of disappointed. What business did they have with a baby now? Still, she couldn't stop touching, and rubbing herself between the legs and uh, uh, uh, Kazow!. An electric shock went through her nervous system that lit up her frontal lobe like a pinball machine. She was gasping and panting and feeling even better than a hot soak, a chocolate milkshake, and a full body massage all rolled into one.

"Wow!" she sighed a little louder than she'd intended. Everyone turned to look.

"What's the matter?" Carl yelled from the other end.

"Nothing," she cried softly feeling all tingly, and wet, and more relaxed than she could remember ever. Doggone that Carl, she looked after him mildly resentful. No wonder her girlfriends had always been hanging on men rubbing their private parts together whenever they'd got a chance. That felt pretty darn good. "Carl?" she called.

"What?" he yelled.

"I need you for a moment."

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"Get over here!" she ordered not even caring if anyone heard her. He thrashed her way. Taking hold of his swimsuit she pulled it off and grabbed his thing.

"What the heck you doing?" he said trying to swim off but Syl had a good hold on him.

"Watch and see?" she smiled feeling his dingus getting all nice and hard. In a moment, she had him backed against the side of the pool thrusting away.

"Yahoo!" they both yelled simultaneously as a blinding orgasm took their breaths away.

"That was fun," Carl grinned giving her a big sloppy kiss. They hadn't done a lot of that up till now either.

"We'll do it again later," she smiled drifting off with long lazy strokes while Carl dived repeatedly for his shorts.

While Carl was having his first sexual experience, Candace was still looking for the perfect swimsuit in her vast hoard.

"Why don't you try this nice blue one?" Jemina asked wearily handing the girl the latest creation from a famous gay designer in Rome.

"I hate blue!" Candace screeched tossing the suit across the room to join the pile.

"Isn't it time for your other pill?" Jemima sighed.

"I don't want another pill, I want that man."

"He'll like you so much more if you take your pill," Jemima patiently insisted.

"That prick!" she screamed. "I'll cut off his balls and feed them to our pigs!"

"Now Candace," Jemima admonished her gently. It was obviously time for the hypodermic. She felt around the pocket of her apron waiting for Candace to turn her back.

"Ow!" Candace yelped as the hypo stuck her butt. She turned ready to brain Jemima viciously with her hair dryer, but almost instantly the heiress smiled getting a dreamy expression. "Oh goodie, that does feel better. Thanks sooooo much."

"You're welcome," Jemima said picking up the very last swimsuit from the closet. It was a semi-see through creation with clear plastic windows over the nipples and crotch and tiny patterns of electric lights that spelled out "Fuck Me" on the front and back. "My land," she said disgusted. "Who would be caught dead wearing that?"

"It's darling," Candace said slipping it on. "How do I look?"

"Like a five dollar whore."

"I love it," Candace enthused as she gazed at herself lovingly in the mirror. "Do you think my pubic hair is the right shade of brown?"

"Honey, if you don't hurry up and get down there, everybody's gonna be gone."

"I guess it will have to do. I'm ready. Now be sure to play my entrance music."

"Yes, ma'am," the old woman said sounding extremely tired.

Sylvia was relaxing on a chaise lounge sipping a lemonade when "Thus Spake Zarathustra" started booming off the walls.

"Turn it down!" Carl yelled holding his hands over his ears as Candace strutted in wearing her semi-see through swimsuit and a pair of glass stiletto heels. She stopped directly in front of Carl. He looked right at her his expression funny.

"Did you know I could see your pee pee hole?" he asked; then thrashed away.

"My pee pee hole?" Candace asked bending over to examine her crotch. Losing her balance due to the teetering glass stiletto heels, she toppled headfirst into the pool.

"Oh, my," Mrs. Coffee gasped.

"Mother!" Candace screamed breaking the surface. At first Sylvia wasn't sure it was the same person. Candace's carefully arranged hair designed to achieve that spontaneous, windblown effect, had run badly streaming dye across her face mixing with black rivulets of mascara and a pinkish gelatinous mess that had been her foundation. The suit, which had never been designed to touch water, was undergoing a chemical reaction, and Carl, thinking the whole thing was some enormous joke, paddled in circles around her hooting and hollering.

"Oh, my Candace," Mrs. Coffee scuttled to the side of the pool. "Come to Mother, but don't touch my dress." Sylvia ran to the side of the pool to help just as Candace flopped to the side of the pool like a decomposing mass of radioactive seaweed. "Jemima," Mrs. Coffee spoke quickly into her cellular phone.

"What happened to her?" Carl wanted to know as Candace, whimpering and twitching in odd directions crawled across the tiles. Alarms rang as white suited attendants came running in followed by Jemima.

"I was afraid this would happen," Jemima mumbled as she prepared the syringe. "You know this child is not able to handle social relationships."

"Oh, for god's sake who is, you meddling old biddy?" Mrs. Coffee hissed. "This affair is entirely financial. Now get her out of here."

"Yes, ma'am," Jemima nodded as the attendants each grabbed and arm or leg and carried Candace through the double wide French doors as "Thus Spake Zarathustra" drew to a close. Sylvia watched feeling simultaneously relieved and a little ashamed. It wasn't likely that woman was gonna steal her man.

"I'm so sorry, Eustace," Mrs. Coffee apologized to Blowfish as she poured another drink for herself and passed him the bottle of Scotch.

"She looked pretty good before she got all wet," the Senator soothed.

"Yes, she always looks good until something happens," Mrs. Coffee said staring off into space as she sipped her Scotch. "The money I've invested in that girl. That filthy drug dealer was the last straw. Who would want to marry her now?"

"Actually," Blowfish cleared his throat, "I'd ready to make an offer on behalf of my son."

"Eustace," Mrs. Coffee smiled gratefully, "are you serious?"

"Madame," the Senator leaned back, "the main thing is the Coffee name and your social connections. A rising young politician needs good solid links to the ruling class."

"But her social skills are well, to put it bluntly, significantly impaired."

"Never you mind, never you mind," Blowfish said patting Mrs. Coffee's thick hand with his thin, bony fingers. "I don't believe you ever met the late Mrs. Blowfish, Randolph's mother, but she was crazy as a loon. Hell, once she claimed she was a socialist, that's how far gone she was. I had to keep her in an institution. We'll drug your daughter up occasionally, put her in restraints so I can, I mean, so Randolph can go in and have sex with her, produce us a family heir, but all in all, hey, she'll be locked down tighter than an inmate at one of our new federal security prisons. In fact, we could keep her in one of those at the taxpayer's expense," he considered. "I'll make some calls."

"Oh, Senator," Mrs. Coffee admitted with some relief, "after Candace is married, you can do whatever you want. Her entire childhood has been such an inconvenience."

"It's settled then," Blowfish nodded his head. "My lawyers will talk to your lawyers and all we have to worry about is that problem over there." His small little beady eyes focused blearily on his present daughter in law. "We won't worry about that too much. That little woman is going to have an unfortunate accident a lot sooner than later. Maybe we could arrange something tonight."

"Foxtrot is at your disposal," Mrs. Coffee replied with a grand lurch of her hand. "And feel free to help yourself to our shotgun collection."

After an afternoon at the pool, Carl and Sylvia were informed it was time for dinner. They entered the vast dining room to find the Senator and Mrs. Coffee already seated at the table.

"So why you sniffing powdered sugar up your nose?" Carl asked.

"Try some, son," the Senator offered a heaping spoon. "It's the best grade of Agency import."

"What's it do?" Carl asked.

"Makes me feel a lot smarter," Blowfish grinned as Carl got ready to have a snort.

"Normally, I'd approve," Sylvia said stopping Carl's hand. "Especially in Carl's case, but I don't want him starting any habits he can't afford."

"What the hell you talking about, woman, the boy's a Blowfish?" the Senator said outraged.

"I didn't really want any anyway," Carl said as the only thing he really liked up his nose was his forefinger hot on the trail of a big booger.

"You sure now, Son?" the Senator asked clearly disappointed. Booze, drugs, money, and the abuse of power were the foundation of his existence.

"You betcha," Carl said snagging a steak from the waiter. "So what we gonna do later? Got any cars?"

"Oh, we have scads of automobiles," Mrs. Coffee assured him.

"Boy's got a passion for cars," Blowfish said. "Says he likes to fix the damned things. Can you imagine anything more embarrassing?"

"Why Candace!" Mrs Coffee called out turning her head. They were wheeling in her daughter in her chair. Although her makeup, clothing, and hair were fully restored, she was wearing restraints on her arms and legs.

She glared at them all fiercely in turn especially Carl.

"Why good evening young lady," Blowfish said in his best oily manner.

"I bet you'd like to stick your wizened little prick up my pee-hole, wouldn't you?" Candace smiled.

"Candace, what kind of talk is that for the dinner table?" her Mother asked.

"Shut up, you drunken old hag. It's true, I can tell he wants to slip me his old syphilitic wiener. Just like all the old rich men."

"Candace," Mother tried to be patient, "you're a very attractive and rich, young woman. Of course any red blooded American male would find you extremely desirable."

"Here, here," Blowfish stomped his feet.

"Oh, really?" Candace pouted. "If I'm so attractive and desirable, then what's wrong with him?" She jerked her head towards Carl.

"He happens to be my husband," Sylvia said.

"Oh, get real, honey," Candace said contemptuously, "come dark they're going to cut your throat and bury you in the swamp."

"Candace!" her Mother said sharply turning in embarrassment to Sylvia. "You can see she's completely insane. Take Candace back to her room."

"It's true," Candace screeched as Jemima wheeled her out. "I know them. They'll cut your skinny little white trash throat, and I'm gonna get your man!"

"What an imagination," Blowfish chuckled. He and Mrs. Coffee exchanged a wink.

"Why, what's the matter, dear, you seem pale?" Mrs. Coffee smiled at Sylvia.

"I'm feeling kind of upset," Syliva admitted. Unlike some, she wasn't used to having her life threatened frequently.

"Really?" Mrs. Coffee said with a significant look at the Senator. "Perhaps you'd like to use the little girl's room?"

"Uh, in that case, " the Senator said quickly, "go down the hall, take the second set of doors to your left, down the stairs, next right, open the fifth door to the left, and you're there."

"Thanks," said Sylvia thinking that was certainly a complicated way to get to the bathroom.

"You're completely welcome," Mrs. Coffee and Blowfish smiled all bubbly. As she exited, Blowfish quickly whispered a few instructions into his cellular phone.

Sylvia was just making the second turn when a hand grabbed her arm. She gasped. It was Jemima.

"What are you doing?" Sylvia.

"Honey," Jemima said in a low voice, "that awful crazy Ms. Candace was telling the truth. She does that now and then when she can't help it. There's Suits fixing to meet you in the garage."

"Garage? I was going to the bathroom."

"The Senator gave you directions to the garage. Help me move this sink."

"But what about Carl?"

"Honey," Jemima said with a sad smile, "they want your man and they're gonna keep him. The best you can do is save yourself. Now come on." Grunting she heaved an ancient dry sink out of the way exposing a trap door. "The slaves built it," Jemima explained. "Had to. What with them lazy ass Coffees always hollering 'do that' and 'do this', a body had to have a quicker way to get around this big old dump of a house. After that, it became a stop on the Underground Railroad."

The passage was musty and cool. Sylvia had to trot to keep up with the older Jemima. They passed dusty old bales of Chinese tea, Brazilian rubber, and old British trade goods that the slaves had liberated from their master long ago and and now forgotten.

"What's all these old rifles?" Sylvia asked passing ragged stacks of pre-civil war muskets.

"Oh, those slaves got so desperate once, they were planning an uprising, but then the Civil War happened. Guess it was all just forgot. Come on, now," she insisted. They came to a thick wooden door of rough cut timbers. "Help me push." The massive door creaked open to the banks of the Potomac. "You'll have to swim across."

"I don't know..," Sylvia said doubtfully.

"Well, you best. Listen, hear those engines? That's them looking for you. Now git!"

Sylvia ran for the river bank only yards away. Dogs burst from the brush. Suits in black ski masks prowled the riverbank in black four wheelers. They saw her. It was too late, but suddenly the bank underneath her feet gave way and she was in the river taking long broad strokes in the dark across the inky flood.

Syl crawled out from the Potomac soaking wet with a darned funny taste in her mouth. Back across the water headlights crisscrossed the bank like angry fireflies and occasional automatic weapons fire. A helicopter swept the woods and riverside with a massive search light as Sylvia sat on a log to catch her breath and wrung out her clothes. Maybe all of it was for the best, really. What did Carl have to look forward to out here but no work and little to eat? With the Senator, he was Randolph and rich. That helicopter was moving across the river. She supposed she'd better think about Carl later and be on her way.

Breaking out of the woods, she stumbled down an embankment, over a ditch and up to the freeway. She jabbed out her thumb to catch a ride. The helicopter was getting closer. There was the sound of indiscriminate weapons fire. Although plenty of cars were passing, no one would stop. Desperate, she stepped out into the pavement. Brakes screeched, horns squawked, but no one would stop. The beam of the helicopter was less than a thousand yards off and coming closer, closer. She danced, jumped, waved her arms. Finally, yanking off her t-shirt, she waved it like a banner. A big long freightliner slowed pulling to the side of the road. Sylvia suddenly realized something. Her bra had fallen to pieces weeks ago.

"Oh, god," she thought approaching the dark cab nervously, but the copter had almost reached the freeway. She opened the door.

"Get in," said a short sleepy looking man with powerful looking arms. He put it in gear.

"My name's Syl," Syl said sitting there with her t-shirt off.

"The name's Shorty," Shorty said trying to keep his eyes on the road.

"Nice night," Sylvia said. "Kind of warm."

"That why you got your shirt off?" Shorty asked turning a deep shade of pink.

"Can I put it back on?" she asked.

"I wish you would," Shorty said with a sigh of relief. "You know, I don't usually pick up hitch hikers but a gal could get herself in serious trouble showing off her, well, jugs like that."

"I had to get a ride," Sylvia explained slipping back into her shirt.

"I guess you did," Shorty admitted.

"I mean, really," Sylvia said checking her rear view window for any sign of that helicopter. Nothing. She sat back and relaxed as the headlights of the oncoming cars kept flying up at them. This was nice; it reminded her of being with Peg. There was a sudden loud honking. The exhausted Shorty had swerved into the other lane.

"Jesus, that was close" Shorty swore jerking the rig safely over, "excuse my French."

"You tired?" Sylvia asked.

"I'm beat. I been driving over seventy-two hours without a break."

"I could take a turn," Sylvia offered. Shorty's tired unshaven face expressed both hope and doubt.

"It ain't exactly like driving a car, hon."

"I realize that. Do you know Peg Smith?"

"Peggy Smith?" Shorty grinned. "Drives a black rig? Drove the Haul Road even? Who the hell don't know that truck-driving bitch? And I mean that in a good way. Sure I know Peg."

"I drove her rig a bit. She showed me how."

"You're kidding? So how come you're standing on the side of a freeway showing your titties off? Wait, wait, forget I asked. Where's my manners? So you can drive? Don't that beat all." He pulled over to the side of the road quickly almost flattening a small car in the outside lane. "Take the wheel. We're headed to Memphis. Watch the signs, that's all." She nodded and took the wheel and he crawled into the back where he was snoring away in minutes. Syl grinned, she was back on the open road!

FIFTEEN
"That's her?" Blowfish demanded angrily pointing to a collection of blackened smoking bones. Having failed to catch Sylvia, the Chief Suit had directed his Suits to incinerate the occupants of a passing car. The Chief Suit dispassionately nodded.

"Shit," said the Senator badly disappointed, "I was hoping for something I could hang on my wall. Ah, what the hell, you're dismissed. Randolph?" he called. Carl looked up from the TV. "Randolph, I got good news. That wife of yours is dead."

"Huh?" Carl said still smiling from the cartoon he was watching. It hadn't really sunk in yet.

"Yep, you betcha. Now you're a free man. Ain't you happy she's gone?"

"Who's gone?" Carl asked.

"That white trash wife of yours," the Senator beamed. "Gone, croaked, gone forever."

"Gone?" Carl repeated dully not really understanding, but Mrs. Coffee was ecstatic.

"That calls for another drink."

"Deader than a door nail; now the boy's free to marry Candace."

"Oh, she'll be so happy," Mrs. Coffee smiled. "'Such a wonderful opportunity to buy new clothes."

"Are you all talking about Sylvia?" Carl asked standing up a little uncertain. Something was obviously wrong.

"Who?" asked the Senator interrupted from his train of thought. He was wondering if it would be too early to declare the boy a candidate for the next presidential election.

"Sylvia, my wife?" Carl asked.

"Oh her, yeah, she's gone. We got some of her bones sitting in a box if you really want to make sure."

"Dead?" Carl repeated his face frozen in sudden shock.

"Dead, dead, dead," the Senator grinned at him. "There's no stopping my boys once they get the scent. Yep, that woman's been caught, hogtied, and deep fat fried. Now there's nothing in the way of your brilliant political career."

"I don't understand," Carl said his face numb and staring. Blowfish lost his patience.

"She's dead, boy. We had to kill her."

"You killed my Sylvia!?" Carl screamed leaping for the Senator's throat. Mrs. Coffee's screams finally brought the Suits who bludgeoned Carl into unconsciousness.

"Stop it," the Senator ordered gasping, his heart beating quickly and erratically. "Stop hittin' his head. Ain't the boy dull enough?"

"My god, what happened?" Mrs Coffee asked shocked awake from her alcoholic haze.

"Bitch had a bigger hold on him than I anticipated," Blowfish drew his breath in sobs. "My little boy tried to kill me."

"There, there," Mrs. Coffee soothed handing him another drink, "my Candace has tried to kill me numerous times. It's just one of the burdens of parenting."

"Mrs. Coffee," Blowfish said breathing with some difficulty, "I just don't know what to do."

"I understand perfectly, Eustace."

"It's as if the boy needs an entire mental makeover. Somehow, the last twenty years, he's changed too goddamned much."

"Eustace," Mrs. Coffee said taking the Senator by his bony hand, "I know exactly what you need."

"More money?" the Senator asked.

"Who doesn't?" the heiress smiled wickedly. "No, I mean for Randolph. I recommend the Reverend Jimmy."

"But-"

"No, wait, I know you think Jimmy's a filthy, no-account, lying thieving SOB and you're perfectly correct, but you see, Eustace, your son's problem is a problem all children of the ruling class have to face."

"And that is..."

"Power, Eustace, dear, and privilege; it's not an easy cross to bear. How can we personally justify the fact that we may have ten, one hundred, ten thousand times as much as our neighbor or more? Are we that many times as smart or talented? Of course not; and so our position in society can instigate massive feelings of guilt."

"I never had a guilty day in my life," Eustace huffed.

"Some of us are lucky to be natural sociopaths. For others a guilt-free existence is the result of years of careful training and the liberal use of chemicals. Our children are the result of a careful brainwashing process which assures them, no matter their flaws, failings, and mediocrities, that they are entitled to rule the human race."

"So what are you telling me?" Blowfish asked.

"I'm telling you that Randolph has a huge gap in his education. I mean, certainly, you raised him well but those godforsaken Vietnamese Communists must have turned him into a normal human being."

"I still say we ought to drop the bomb on those pricks," Blowfish fumed.

"I recommend you take the boy to Reverend Jimmy. He gets excellent results, quickly, especially with children of the nouveau riche. In fact, up to this point, he's only had a handful of failures, and one of them was Candace."

"But he's a worse bastard than I am," Blowfish whined. "What's he gonna do to my poor boy?"

"Exactly," she smiled, "and who should know better than you that bastards can be very useful." She laid her trembling hand on the Senator's. "Eustace, give him a call."

Joe Frydegg felt queasy from the smell of pine tar. The International Order of Aryan Skinheads initiation rite was nothing like the advertising. He had been tarred, feathered, sodomized, and now hung suspended from the ceiling in a small revolving cage where he had to dodge stray bullets until the period of his initiation was over and just where the heck was his beer?!

Below him, Circle Jerkers from all over the world fought and argued over an endless litany of conspiracy theories that were, more often than not, recently invented and the continuous whining, howling, arguing, and name calling often reached deafening proportions. Now and then participants would completely lose it and the entire hall would erupt into vicious brawls and small arms fire.

Suddenly, guards flung concussion grenades into the mob to quiet them down. A short, pasty-faced man whose thin hair was parted just above his ear and combed over to disguise a bald spot cleared his throat into the microphone. It was Willard Johnson Stokes, grand leader of the International Aryans and Master of Ceremonies for the Circle Jerk. The room was instantly silent. When Willard Johnson Stokes had something to say, it was safest to listen up.

After getting the crowd's attention, Willard stepped up to a large podium where his small thin, mousy looking wife was plumping the pillow of, well, a throne. She cringed back as he sat down. A frown crossed Willard's face. He motioned for Emma, to approach. She crept forward timidly. As soon as she got close enough, he stood suddenly and decked her to the floor.

"Honey," she squeaked holding a hand to her bleeding mouth, "what'd you do that for?"

"Why? Because I felt like it," Willard said turning triumphantly to the assembled conventioneers. They all stood and cheered. Energized by the mob's adulation, Willard continued: "Why do I hate blacks? Because I feel like it. Why do I hate Jews, Catholics, and all them other foreign scum? Because I feel like it. Why do I whack my kids and the little woman. Because that's the way I feel. I ain't got to have a reason. I'm free, I'm white, I'm an American man, and I do what I do."

The crowd went crazy. Shots were fired to the ceiling as Joe scrambled for protection. Affectionate hugs were shared. There was a brotherly exchange of fraternal fisticuffs and one friendly stabbing.

"I don't need reasons," Willard continued turning up the volume to his PA system. "Oh, we can sit here and come up with all these long complicated explanations. We can blame it on the Jews, the commies, the niggers, the women and the bad things we say they do." He stepped over to his laid out wife and kicked her, "or whatever, but the point is, the point is, we don't need any reason to act the way we do because we naturally behave like real Americans and that's all anyone needs to know." He waited modestly while the crowd cheered.

"So you all go right ahead and come up with them theories. Hell, the more the better. It's them blacks, spics, women, and commies all plotting to enslave real Americans. Hell, blame anyone you want. You hate kids? We'll set up some concentration camps. We'll expose those Sesame Street bastards as the low-life liberal scum-sucking dykes they are. Hell, blame anyone. It don't matter." He dropped his voice to a dramatic whisper. "You true white American patriotic heroes who are out to save our precious paternalistic Aryan system don't need a reason. Just do it!" he yelled his voice reverberating off the walls of the room.

"Just do it!" the mob howled louder and louder. That Willard, what a card. Much as they loved conspiracies and lying their heads off, they knew in their hearts he was right. Willard's new theoretical breakthrough had a bunch of them circle jerking right then and there. Why they got themselves so worked up many were ready to rush out in the streets and start the national Aryan insurrection that very minute, but someone spotted a policeman writing out a traffic ticket just outside and the boys sobered up real fast.

"It don't matter when we do it—tomorrow, yesterday or today," Willard shouted into the microphone eager to keep up the mob's momentum. "We'll do it when we feel like it. And when we do it, and when we do it," he paused for emphasis. It was a trick he'd learned at the Reverend Jimmy School of Rabble Rousing and Creative Financial Accounting, "I sure wouldn't want to be black, I sure wouldn't want to be Jewish, I sure wouldn't want to be a liberal, or a democrat, or a Muslim, or a Jap, or some green, purple, or yellow god knows what. I wouldn't want to be a woman, I wouldn't want to be some bratty spoiled kid who's always asking his poor goddamned father: why, why why!" Willard paused to get control of himself. "Because we, the white Aryan Skinhead Union of the United States is gonna get all that racial scum and trash, and anyone else who thinks he's better than us, and then we'll have the country we deserve!"

Finished, then Willard received a standing ovation from those who were still sober enough to stand. They cheered long and hard. Many a beer was drunk, and since most had completely missed his point, dozens of new conspiracy theories were instantly hatched that minute.

"That was one hell of speech, sir," Rollins bellowed crawling enthusiastically to the stage. Guards instantly moved to deny him access as Willard got warily behind his chair.

"Is that so?" Willard replied cautiously nervously fingering a hand grenade.

"Best I ever heard," Rollins grinned trying to reach out his hand.

"Is that so?" Willard thawed coming forward hesitantly.

"You bet, sir. You're a real genius."

"Boys, boys," Willard smiled, "you just let this fine young Aryan through. He's obviously an intelligent boy." The guards parted to let Rollins through. Rollins turned to wave at the crowd as it was being filmed by crews from all the national television networks.

"You'll pardon me, son, if I don't shake your hand. The government's been trying to nail me with their secret biochemical weapons for years." Willard seated himself on his throne. He motioned that Rollins should also sit on a low three legged stool.

"Don't I know it, sir," agreed Rollins sitting. He looked up at the great man fawningly eager to receive the benefit of his accumulated wisdom. Willard clapped his hands.

"Bring us a couple of Koors," he ordered and pulled out the stub of a half-smoked unlabeled Cuban cigar, a gift from a secret friend.

"Allow me, sir," Rollins got up instantly with his lighter.

"You just sit right where you are!" Willard ordered the hair on the back of his neck stranding straight up.

"The boss don't like no sudden moves," a guard informed Rollins placing a survival knife across Rollins' throat.

"No sudden moves. Got it," Rollins said as another guard lit the great man's cigar accidentally singing Willard's nose.

"Help!" Willard screeched fearing an assassination attempt. With a berserk roar, Rollins leapt on the confused guard tearing at his throat with his teeth. In seconds, the guard's carotid neck artery was ripped open and Rollins was on all fours lapping blood off the stage.

"My, my, my, "Willard said with no little admiration, "you see that? Now that's a real Aryan. You done real good, boy. Boy?" he repeated, but Rollins was in a feeding frenzy. "My gosh, get this young man a double MacDoogie or something," Willard ordered with detached fascination. "He seems to need something to eat. So how's that taste?" he asked Rollins prodding him with the toe of his boot." Rollins looked up suddenly and growled.

"Don't ever get between a big critter and his meal," an Aryan survivalist advised Willard from the front ranks of the crowd. The survivalist was missing a hand.

"That's the coolest thing I ever saw," a skinhead from Los Angeles mentioned to a member of Bigots for Social Justice.

"Can't you do something?" Willard's wife asked in an awful whisper.

"Who the hell pulled your cord?" Willard snapped backhanding the woman. The movement of his arm startled the feeding beast which roared.

"Shoot him," Willard squeaked.

"Don't kill him!" Pimps squealed shoving to the front of the crowd.

"Who the hell are you?" Willard demanded from behind his chair.

"Rollins is my very bestest buddy. Don't shoot. I've got his medicine right here," Pimps begged waving a hypodermic.

"What the hell's that stuff?" Willard asked instantly on his guard. All his life people had been trying to calm him down with pills and needles.

"I don't know but it works."

"Well, get up here and give the boy his shot," Willard said grudgingly. Carefully approaching the feeding beast from behind, Pimps jabbed it in the butt. Screaming and thrashing wildly, the beast collapsed to the stage.

"Jesus Fucking H. Christ," Willard whispered in awe thinking how great it would be to let loose a pack of wild Aryans just like that into a room full of unsuspecting Jews, feminists, and race traitors.

"Sorry,sir," Pimps apologized scared to death of Willard, the great man.

"He do that all the time?" Willard asked as the guards rushed to bind the snoring Rollins.

"I've never seen him eat anyone," Pimps explained. "Usually he just totally loses it and, you know, gets charged with a serious crime."

"Hmm," thought Willard wondering how he might put Rollins' interesting talents to use—tie him up in the front yard?

"What do you want us to do with him, Mr. Willard, sir?" asked one of the hulking guards.

"Shit, I don't know. Stick him somewheres safe. Wait, wait, I know, put him up there," he said pointing at Joe's cage dangling from the ceiling. The cage was lowered.

"Who's this guy?" Willard asked spotting Joe cowering in the corner of the cage.

"It's that FBI agent we captured. He's being initiated," Pimps piped up.

"You captured an agent of the FBI?" Willard choked. Sure, talking about killing, raping, murdering and all that was one thing, but messing with the Feds? This could lead to serious jail time.

"How'd you know he was a Fed?" Willard demanded.

"We got his ID," Pimps grinned extracting Frydegg's badge and wallet from his back pocket. Willard's guts froze instantly. "Uh, who else knows about this?" Willard whispered shielding his mouth with his hand.

"Uh, I don't know; maybe everybody?"

"How come nobody told me we had a Fed hanging from the ceiling?" Willard demanded of his cringing wife.

"You said you didn't want to be bothered by any details," Emma squeaked. "Besides, you did sign this," she said extracting a paper from a bulging folder. Willard tried to read it quickly only stumbling over a few words. According to this paper, they were going to end the week's Circle Jerk by blowing up a Fed. At the end, Willard read his illegibly scrawled X followed by his wife's signature.

"What the hell were we gonna do, stuff this boy full of fertilizer and diesel fuel and stick a charge up his ass?" He tried to smile.

"I think that's what you said," his wife twitched anticipating a blow.

"Shit," Willard cursed striding off without striking her.

"Honey, did I do something to make you mad?" Emma asked confused he hadn't hit her. Did that mean he didn't love her anymore?

Barricading himself in the nearest payphone, Willard punched in a secret number that was tattooed on his arm.

"Thank you for calling FED-Fink," a pleasant recorded voice answered. "If you are calling from a touch-tone phone and wish to speak with a representative, please punch one and enter your secret code followed by the pound key. If you are new to the system and would like information on the FED-Fink system and available rewards, please punch two. If you are..." Willard punched one.

"Hello," answered a pleasant sounding recorded voice, "this is FED-Fink. Please hold for our next available representative. Have a nice day." Willard waited.

"FED-Fink," a voice finally answered. "Fed Fink Service Agent ID 593027. How may I help you today?"

"Yes, sir, this is Willard Johnson Stokes, Fink Number 982654."

"One moment while I bring up your file." Willard waited. "Ah, yes, I see you're on assignment at the Idaho Circle Jerk. Are you reporting information?"

"Well, sir, you see, it's like this, I'm presiding over this Circle Jerk up here in Idaho and-"

"And this is a Company sponsored event?"

"Oh, you bet," Willard assured him. "The Company's been in this from the get-go. Made the hotel reservations; ordered the beer. Hell, it was their idea."

"And?" the voice inquired.

"Well, you see, we have a problem. The boys have captured an FBI agent. They want to have him executed in our closing ceremony."

"How do you know this is an FBI agent?"

"I got his badge."

"Read off the name and identification number."

"Yeah, I got a Joe Frydegg," Willard read into the phone from Frydegg's badge. "Special Agent, Fifth class, ID number TUR-D-6-598."

"One moment please." There was a brief pause. "Hello?" said the voice again.

"I ain't in any trouble, am I?" Willard asked nervously rubbing his sweaty palm across his eyes. "Cuz I didn't know nothin' about this. It was my wife's fault. That's Emma. You want to get anyone, you get-"

"According to our records," the anonymous voice broke in, "a special agent Fifth class Joe Frydegg has failed to report in. He was assigned to case number 678-113: Domestic Destabilization. Interesting, that comes under the auspices of our working group," the voice said suddenly interested. "Yes, in fact they're right across the hall. Hold please. I'm going to scoot right next door and ask Fred about this."

"Yes, sir," Willard agreed quickly. Right next to him, a young skinhead was pleading with his parents for more beer money. After a minute, the voice returned to the phone chuckling.

"Oh, that Fred, now, where were we? Ah, yes, Agent Frydegg. It seems he was given his assignment as something to keep him busy for a few months until retirement. In light of that, and the fact that Uncle Sam could stand to save several thousand dollars if his pension is not dispersed, it's our opinion it would be convenient to have him terminated."

"You want me to kill a Fed?" Willard asked just a tad floored.

"It's really not such a big deal, FED-Fink Stokes. Agents are sacrificed whenever it's felt to be convenient for whatever reason. Not only will we save on his pension, but the killing of a federal agent will lend legitimacy to your Circle Jerk."

"I see," said Willard. "So's we can do whatever we want to this Joe Frydegg?"

"You have our complete permission."

"And you won't be trying to punish us for this later?" Willard asked.

"Now, Willard," the voice gently admonished him. "Of course it will be necessary to find a scapegoat. No doubt some unemployed minority male, but you can rest assured it won't be you."

"We could blame it on my wife if you like," Willard offered.

"Whatever. Is there anything else?"

"No."

"Communication terminated." The line went dead. Hanging up the phone, Willard slunk down the hall trying to wipe his plastered hair up and over his bald spot. Although he kind of liked having all these manly, freethinking, and independent Americans sucking up to him, it was stressful, and someday, he'd have enough in his FED-Fink account to ditch Emma and disappear off to his hidden little place in Ratzgnards, Ohio. With that and everything else he'd managed to divert out of Circle Jerk funds over the years, he'd be doing pretty well for a bankrupt barber who was finking for the Feds because the IRS caught him diddling his tax returns.

"Is everything okay, honey?" Emma anxiously asked him as he brushed by her with uncharacteristic civility.

"Everything's A-okay. Stick that mad dog in with that stinking Fed. We're going ahead with our plans."

Joe watched fearfully as Rollins choked on his own vomit, shuddered finally and evacuated his bowels. Struggling to breathe, Joe screamed for a doctor which took a while since any doctor they called had to promise he wasn't a she, Jewish or anything but certified WASP. By the time a blond Aryan looking doctor came running in, Rollins was definitely long gone.

Pimps, of course, was all broken up. Rollins dead? His mentor, his friend, his guiding light? What would he do, who would tell him what to do or think? Completely disoriented, he left the hotel and wandered out into traffic. In seconds he was road pizza.

The Circle Jerk continued. What with factional struggles, turf wars, and gunfights, everybody was having a good ol' time. Everybody but Emma. Something was definitely wrong. Willard hadn't been whacking her around in his usual ebullient manner. Did it have something to do with that tattoo on his arm he kept glancing at nervously. Risking, indeed hoping for a beating, she took a good long glance at the thing as she was serving her husband a beer. It looked like a phone number. Could Willard have a secret girlfriend? She hurried away practically in tears.

It took Emma a minute or two but she decided she was going to fight for her man. Somehow she'd weasel the address out of the bitch and have her killed. Breathing shallowly, Emma dialed the number.

"Hello, this is FED-Fink. If you are calling to fink, please press one. If you are calling for information on the FED-Fink program, please press two. If you are call..." Emma pressed two. "Hello, welcome to FED-Fink. We are happy to have you as a part of the FED-Fink team. To access our current FED-Fink rates, please press one. To access your current FED-Fink account balance, please press two. To access your--," Emma pressed two.

"FED-Fink account balance representative. Name?"

"Willard Johnson Stokes."

"One moment please..." Emma waited. "Your account balance is $238,456.90."

"Could you repeat that?" Emma gasped.

"Certainly. $238,456.90." Emma hung up breathing heavily; stunned. Her great Aryan hero was finking to the Feds, and he'd never even shared a dime. That bastard, that filthy communist Jew spic negro traitor, she would shoot him down like a dog.

It wasn't until Emma had dressed out in combat fatigues, bandoliers, and three automatic assault weapons that she finally cooled off. What was the point really of shooting that scum with a weapon that was sure to shred him to pieces instantly with a minimum of pain and suffering? She sat down and thought just happening to cast her eyes to the plans and drawings of the grand finale of the Circle Jerk which was scheduled to end with a giant cross burning starring the captured Fed, Frydegg. Emma grinned.

That night, after the last Aryan had collapsed into a beer soaked stupor, Joe woke from an uneasy sleep. His cage, with a rusty creaking, was being lowered to the floor. It came to a rest with a clunk. Emma, dressed in full battle dress, stuck an automatic weapon in this face. "Follow me," she ordered.

They entered Willard's VIP suite on the top floor. Willard was lying on the bed bound and gagged.

"Take him to the parking lot," Emma hissed gesturing to a laundry cart.

"Now, what?" Joe wheezed. They were standing out in the dark parking lot by a big prone wooden cross.

"Tie the lying sack of shit onto the cross," Emma grinned. Willard's eyes bugged even more than before. "By the way," she smiled staring right into Willard's face, "the contents of your FED-Fink account have been deposited into our joint account." She laughed merrily as Joe worked. Finally, when Willard was all tied to the cross, she stuck a bag over his head.

"Now what?" Joe gasped.

"I got a crane crew coming in twenty minutes. They'll stand it right up. Now let's you and I take a walk into that dark alley."

"Why?" Joe asked.

"Shut up, Asslick and move!" the diminutive woman snapped. Joe walked ahead of her into the shadows. "Now get into that garbage can," she said.

"This one?" Joe asked gesturing to a huge dumpster.

"Get in," Emma ordered fitting a silencer to her automatic. Joe struggled over the side like a wounded fish. Emma was just reaching over the edge of the dumpster to let him have it when a garbage truck wheeled into the alley roaring right towards them.

SIXTEEN
"Get up, chump." Someone was shaking him. Joe cracked open his irritated eyes. He was half-buried in a sea of fetid disposable diapers. Over his head squawking hungry gulls wheeled. A ragged looking figure with rags covering its mouth was peering into his face. "Get up, move. Don't you want to live?" Joe gasped and choked getting weakly to his hands and knees. Live? What the hell for?

Joe was barely half-conscious as Wanda handed him a hot drink. She turned off her methane powered stove. Joe looked around at the interior of the old VW bus. It sat at the edge of the landfill where the air wasn't so bad. "You hungry?" she asked. "Plenty of good pickin's today. I got bananas, bruised apples, and I think this was supposed to be a steak," she said pulling a piece of bedraggled looking meat from her bag. "Looks like they ran a truck over it. Still, it don't smell too bad." Joe coughed. The garbage fumes combined with fifty plus years of smoking seemed to have done something to his lungs. Toppling over like a potato sack, he hit the van's deck out cold.

There was a low light burning in the van when he woke again. It was dark outside, and Wanda was busying herself with dinner over her rusty old stove. He coughed.

"You awake?" she asked. Joe nodded weakly.

"Got any smokes?" he wheezed. Wanda handed him a can of butts and some toilet paper for rolling paper. Joe fell into another coughing fit. Maybe he didn't need a smoke after all.

"So what's your name?" she asked. Joe pulled out his ID. "That so," Wanda said matter of factly. "So what were you doing in the garbage, that what you call FBI types call working undercover?" She cackled at her own joke. Joe rolled his eyes. What could he tell her, that he'd spent the last two weeks the prisoner of a gang of psycho Aryan butt-fuckers? That he'd been assigned to chase Libyans on foot? Hell, he hadn't even been able to report in. They'd probably used it as an excuse to can his butt and keep his miserable pension.

"Just an accident," he lied.

"Yeah, right," Wanda beamed. "You were just out dumpster diving. We get more new people that way. Hey, you don't have to tell me. Nobody knows better how hard it is to stretch a paycheck these days. Would you believe it, I worked thirty years and this is the best I can do with their lousy 78 dollar a month pension?"

"That so?" Joe remarked dismissively already bored. He had enough of his own problems. Wanda shrugged. Plenty of people kept to themselves around here which was fine with her. She got up to check the stove.

"Dinner's served" she announced accidentally dropping it on the floor.

"Looks great," Joe said picking his food up off the floor and slapping it back on his plate. Wanda watched him tear away at his food like a starved dog. It was nice to have a man around.

"Probably just a touch of food poisoning," Wanda assured him later as he was puking out the side door. "I couldn't hold down nothin' for a couple of weeks. Dump food is usually spoiled. You'll get used to it."

"I sure hope so." Joe collapsed weakly into his seat.

"Like some chicken?" Wanda asked pulling a partly chewed drumstick from a fast food bag. Shaking his head, Joe stuck his head out the van and puked some more.

By the next morning he was feeling better. From where he had collapsed under the table the night before, he watched Wanda pulling on her thigh-high rubber boots.

"The garbage trucks are just starting to roll in from the suburbs," Wanda explained. "It's the best pickings of the week. You wouldn't believe what those people throw away."

"Bring me back the paper and some smokes?" Joe begged pitifully. Wanda was unmoved.

"I ain't your wife, your mother or the maid. You want something, get off your ass and find it your own self. I've got to hunt down my own dinner."

"Kind of feels funny when you walk, don't it?" Wanda cackled. The ground quaked and wobbled under them like jello as they trudged through the smoking murk.

"You sure this is safe?" Joe asked queasily feeling he could fall through any minute.

"Hell, no, but it kind of makes you wonder what's going on under there—all that garbage sitting around for years. Who knows? Could be something living. Every once in a while, one of us just disappears."

"Urp?" Joe squeaked sinking suddenly to his knees. "Help!!" he screamed.

"Don't be such a big baby," Wanda said extending a hand. "It's safer than the streets. Least you can find something to eat here and the cops ain't always chasing you off, or worse."

"What do you mean, worse?" Joe asked.

"Let's just say that once in a while we find bodies in the dump. Street people. And they always got a little hole right in the middle of their forehead." She tapped hers meaningfully. "Like they been executed."

"Come on," Joe said nervously, "couldn't be cops. Probably just rich punk teenagers out having a good time."

"Possible," Wanda admitted. They trudged on through the dark fill seething with methane. Here and there Wanda would find an object of interest and throw it in her bag. "This way," she pointed through the murk. Joe heard rumbling. "Careful there!" Wanda cried just as Joe found himself teetering on the edge of vast pit. Hundreds of feet below enormous bulldozers crawled back and forth across garbage freshly dumped by a fleet of trucks. "That's us down there!" she gestured excitedly towards tiny figures milling about the hulking machines like ants.

"Hope we're not too late," Wanda worried as they wended their way down the treacherous shifting slopes. Stumbling past scraps of wood and yawning refrigerators, Joe got pecked by nesting seagulls.

Wanda walked quickly. A good haul once a week from the gated communities in the wealthy suburbs could make up for increasingly lean deliveries from the other parts of town.

"Stick close, you hear?" Wanda yelled once they had gotten down to the bottom. She scurried towards the machines. A figure stopped and turned raising what was left of an arm up high.

"Wanda, you old biddy!"

"Hey, Charley, meet my friend, Joe Frydegg, FBI." Joe reached over to shake Charley's hand. It looked more like a fin. Joe gasped. Charley's face was all melted together as if had been hot plastic.

"Pleased to meet you," Charley seemed to grin. "Hey, honey, you better get moving. First load's already in."

"I'm moving, I'm moving," Wanda insisted dragging Joe in her wake. "Charley's our oldest resident," she explained proudly. "Someone tossed him in the garbage as a baby. Somehow he survived." A bulldozer rumbled their way. 'That's Mike," she told him. "He's the best operator here and careful of us. You watch out for Ed over there," she said pointing. "A mean SOB, he's already flattened a couple of folks most likely on purpose.

"Jesus," Joe squeaked. Still, it wasn't any less treacherous than the halls of the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington DC.

"How's the pickins' today?" Wanda asked one figure all huddled in an old wet suit.

"Great," grinned the gap-toothed old man, "I found a paper bag with fifteen bucks in loose change."

"Willy, you lucky dog," Wanda said excitedly thumping him on the back as they dodged a dozer. "Jeez," she said with awe, "I guess if you're rich enough, you can toss out anything. Okay, okay," she said surveying a freshly dumped load. "Enough jabbering, it's time to get to work. Grab anything possible to eat, we'll decide if it's safe later."

Dodging the giant dozers, they worked for hours gleaning small treasures from tons of fresh fill. Joe managed to find a new suit that sort of fit him good. At noon the trucks stopped rolling in. The Fillers gathered in a small group for lunch.

"Hey, anyone see Billy?" one asked.

"Probably left the Fill," said Agnes, a young mother with a baby strapped to her back and a little girl.

"Why would anyone want to leave the Fill?" Charley asked truly confused. At first, they all stared at him, but maybe he had a point.

"What would you do if you had some cash?" Agnes asked as she nursed both the baby and the little girl.

"I don't know," said Eric. "Get myself a car maybe."

"Where would you go?" wondered Art, a former accountant.

"Gee, I don't know."

"I suppose we could visit some other fills," Charley suggested not wanting to be left out.

"Yeah, I guess that's true," nodded Eric. "I hear they got some awesome fills in LA."

"What about New York?" said another. "You ain't seen nothin' till you've seen Fresh Kills Fill on Long Island."

"You been there?" asked Agnes.

"No, but I heard about it."

"I don't know about you guys," she sighed, "but I wouldn't mind having an apartment again and putting the kids back in school. You know, living like I used to." There was silence after that. Her older daughter started blubbering. Gradually the group melted away. Despite all their hours of hard work, gleaning while the dozers were parked was still the safest time of day.

"Like some bread?" Wanda asked handing Joe a slice that was only slightly moldy.

"I don't like wheat," he complained but took it anyway.

"What would you do if you had money?" Wanda asked examining a potato.

"Me? I don't know," Joe shrugged.

"I don't know what I'd do either," she paused for a moment leaning on her stick. "I never thought about it. Why should I waste time thinking about what I'm never going to get? I don't know," she sighed. "Maybe I'm just a weak old, used-up old woman tossed out on the garbage heap of Life. But hey," she added with a creased smile, "it ain't so bad."

It was just about time for the operators to get back to work when Mike waved Wanda over. Joe followed warily regarding the big machine with darting eyes.

"How you doing today, Old Lady?" Mike leaned over from his cab. He was a big, red-faced friendly looking man with a belly bulging over the top of his pants.

"Doing great; lot's of good pickings today."

"I got a couple of extra sandwiches here. The wife packed a bit much for my lunch."

"Ah, come on, a big guy like you needs his chow," Wanda said.

"Really, I'm full," he said dropping the wrapped packages from twenty feet above. "You want today's paper too?"

"Sure." It fell bonking Joe on the shoulder.

"Sorry about that," Mike apologized. "Listen, Wanda," he said bending over after taking a look in the direction of the other dozer. "I got bad news."

"Bad news?" Wanda repeated looking up in his direction..

"Yeah, we just heard today. They're gonna privatize the Fill."

"Privatize?" Wanda repeated not sure what he meant.

"Yeah, that's where the City gives it up to some contractor. They run it with their own people."

"What's that mean, Mike?" Wanda asked with concern. "Are you out of a job?" Mike shook his head at that somewhat embarrassed.

"Well, I could go to work for the new company I guess; for half the pay."

"Or you and your family could join us," Wanda joked. "There's not much money in it, but there's all you can eat." Mike's face darkened.

"Don't think I haven't thought of that," he said. "But living in the Fill's not going to be an option in the future, for any of us. It's a new company; they've got plans. What with recycling, gas generation, scrap metals; hell, they even gonna turn all the food scraps into cattle feed and ship it off to Japan. It's all going and that includes you folks too."

"But Mike," she started to say; the whistle blew. Time to get back to work.

Wanda backed away from the dozer stunned. All of them? Charley, herself, the young woman with her two kids, that blond-headed space case, Eric? What could they do? Where would they go? And why? Because they ate a bit of garbage nobody else wanted and maybe snagged some old clothes?

"That's terrible," she said to herself wandering back towards Joe. He looked up from the funny papers.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said taking a long look in the direction of the misshapen Charley who knew every corner of the Fill like it was home. Heck, it was his home. This would break his heart. Watching the giant dozer looming overhead, its huge weight quaking the earth, Wanda suddenly felt deeply depressed as she considered life back on the streets. She stared at the oncoming dozer which could finish her off real quick if she laid quietly under its tracks and she found herself thinking, why not?

"Hey, watch out!!" Joe yelled suddenly grabbing her arm just as the dozer wheeled perilously close.

"What?" she responded dully to his unpleasant expression.

"You almost stepped on my foot, watch where the hell you're going." His unpleasant expression widened as the dozer loomed backwards over their heads. Screaming, Joe scuttled away dragging Wanda by the arm.

"Goddammit," he cursed once he'd got them both to safety, "I dropped the goddamned sports section."

"You'll live," Wanda said her heart beating quickly. She felt awake, alive, somehow glad she hadn't killed herself. To hell with those privatizing assholes! She and the rest of them would beat this or die trying!

"You're probably all wondering why I asked you here," Wanda said looking out over the denizens of the dump all illuminated by the low hissing methane powered lamps. They were gathered in an old trailer that at one time had been the office for the Fill supervisor and was now their community center.

"Sort of," Eric admitted twisting a long lock of his unkempt hair in a forefinger. Wanda looked around the room to see who was missing. "Anyone see Willy or Charley?" Everyone shook their heads.

"Willy probably went off-Fill to spend his money," offered someone from the back. Suddenly the flimsy trailer door flew open. Charley staggered in.

"Charley," Wanda cried out. "It's about time." But Charley remained silent, his face twitching more than usual as he stood there breathing hard. "Something wrong?" she asked. He said nothing sitting heavily on an old chair.

"It's Willy," Charley hissed in a loud whisper. "He's gone."

"Hey, don't worry about it Willy," Eric grinned. "He probably just went drinking to celebrate the money he found. You know how he is."

"No, no, he's gone," Charley insisted through the aperture in his face. "Willy's got a hole in his head. He's dead."

"Someone killed him?" old Mrs. Andrews asked.

"It's that money," Art the accountant said. "He was robbed."

"Nah, he wasn't robbed," Charley said with certainty, "because I got his money right here." He dumped a paper bag full of money on the table. "He was holding this bag in his hand." There was a collective gasp. Everyone started talking. Joe jumped to his feet.

"Wow," said Erich, "must be his life savings."

"Agent Joe Frydegg of the FBI. Everyone stay in your seat!" They all stared at Joe as he strutted towards the table in a suit too small and too tight. "This looks like important evidence in a top-secret case I'm working on. I'd better take it back to Washington." He scooped the money back in its bag.

"Now just a doggone minute," Wanda started angrily as the crowd gathered around close. Furrowing his beetle brows, Joe tried to bluff his way through.

"You're obstructing a federal officer. That's one of 3049 crimes covered under the mandatory life in prison sentencing act with no chance for parole."

"Let's see some ID," asked Eric who'd been busted once for smoking pot. He knew all about the cops.

"I'm warning you," Joe snarled in the tone he usually reserved for children, underlings, and bed-ridden old ladies.

"Blow it out your ass," yelled Art Weaves the accountant who had little respect for authority after being fired from his job for refusing to cook the books. One little girl wrapped herself around Joe's leg and gave him a wicked bite on the knee.

"Get her off," he screamed as the dump denizens moved ominously closer.

"I think you better put that sack back on the table," Wanda advised him. Joe staggered for the table dragging the child. "Thank you, sir," Wanda smiled relieving him of the paper bag. The little girl let him go. "Now," Wanda said turning to her neighbors, "I have one more bit of news."

Wanda recounted what Mike had told her about the Fill's coming privatization. Most of them knew all about privatization, restructuring, and all from personal experience. Privatization always meant less jobs or no jobs; low wages or no wages and much higher costs. Despite what the mass media croaked about greater efficiency and more profits, privatization was the main reason most of them were here.

"I guess that means we have to leave," old Mrs. Andrews said wiping a tear from her cheek.

"As your Accountant..." Art began.

"Who died and made you our accountant?" Wanda asked as the crowd stirred.

"Uh, I was just going to say..," he stopped and cleared his throat with embarrassment. "Despite what the papers said, I was completely innocent. I found the evidence of embezzling. I was just going to say, well, I do know something about the stock market. I could take this money and invest it in the name of the group, you know, and we could use uh, the profits, well it would be an investment."

"Are you nuts?" the young woman spoke up. "I used to work in a stock brokerage. It's nothing but a sucker game. The rich clients get the good tips and the little guy loses his shirt."

"So what do you think we ought to do?" Wanda asked.

"Divvy it up," said a voice from the back. "Why not? Once we each go our separate ways, there ain't gonna be a group anyways."

"And where we gonna go, wise guy?"

"That's right," said another. "If they're privatizing this Fill, that means they'll privatize the rest in short order. Look how fast they privatized the public schools, for god's sake."

"And we don't get to use those either!" cried someone else.

"So what am I hearing?" Wanda said bellowing out to be heard above the crowd. "You want to stay and fight it out?"

"Count the money," Joe shouted. Everyone glared. "Well, don't you want to know how much it is?" he cringed.

"I suppose it ain't a bad idea," Wanda agreed. "Mr Weaves, why don't you come here and give us an accounting?" Art did so. There was $3,492 in the bag.

"Is it counterfeit?" a woman named Alice wanted to know.

"Don't seem to be," Weaves said scrutinizing several of the bills, "just old worn out money."

"So how much is that divided by 43?" Wanda asked. Weaves didn't even pause.

"$81.00 and change."

"That ain't so much," a former construction laborer said from the back.

"It's a lot more than I got now."

"Give everybody their share," some yelled shrilly. There was a sudden roar of noise.

"Okay, okay!" Wanda bellowed to be heard. She was good at bellowing. It came from years of bellowing across a noisy shop floor. "I think we have a motion to split the money by 43 residents. Residents defined to be anyone who was lived in the Fill more than one week."

"Hey, what about me?" Joe squawked.

"Sorry, honey," Wanda said, "getting dumped here yesterday only means you're temporary. You got to stay with intent to live."

"I second the motion," offered Alice.

"All in favor?" Wanda asked. The vote was practically unanimous. "Mr. Weaves, count it out." Weaves nodded. "Now, while Mr. Weaves counts out each $81 share, I think we need to talk about our situation. They're privatizing the Fill, they want us gone. If we go, where do we go? And if we stay, then what?"

"Stay?" Mr. Weaves stopped counting to blink. "How can we stay? If they privatize, we have to go. After all, it's their property."

"Theirs?" the young blond said. "So they bought this garbage from each and every person who made it?"

"Well, no, but they paid some money to someone."

"You mean, they paid someone off?" added Wanda with an ironic laugh.

"So you're saying their right to make some money off this Fill is greater than our right to live?" said the young blond man. "'Cause that's what it boils down to. Man, I been on the street, I've been out in the sticks. Everywhere I go, it's private property, some fat cat telling me he's got a greater right to a fat bank account than I got a right to eat. Well, I got news for you, suckers," he said growing red. "My right to scrounge a little bit of garbage beats his right to buy a sixty foot Winnebago and live in a five hundred thousand dollar home."

"You bet. That's right. You tell 'em," voices erupted from the back. Everyone talked loudly laughing, crying while Joe, being a trained FBI agent, started taking notes. Obviously anyone expressing dissatisfaction with the most sacred right of private property was a pure and simple terrorist pinko.

"So what am I hearing?" Wanda bellowed out once more. "You want to stay?"

"Where else can we go?" a middle-aged former college professor asked from the rear corner. "They've pushed us out of our jobs, our homes. They've even pushed us off the streets. I'm surprised they don't open concentration camps and exterminate us."

"Could someone spell that last word?" Joe asked loudly. There was silence.

"What the heck are you doing?" Wanda asked.

"He's FBI," Eric accused, "a born and bred stoolie."

"Get him!" some yelled.

"Hey, wait," Joe screeched as hands clenched his clothes. "You got the wrong idea. I, I'm a writer, yeah, that's my hobby. I'm writing a book."

"You ain't writing nothin'," the former construction worker snarled tearing up Joe's notes.

"That's government property you're messing with," Joe said trying to look intimidating. The construction worker laughed.

"If we stayed..," Alice piped up. "If we stayed, wouldn't that be dangerous for our families?"

"Well," said Wanda, "we should talk about that."

"What about Willy?" a teenager shouted from the left. "We all like Willy, and nobody stole his money. Who killed him and why?"

"Kid's got a good point," admitted the construction worker thoughtfully.

"When they shut down our plant, we tried to organize a picket line," Wanda remembered. "We was just standing there holding up signs. The cops charged us, they started shooting and accused us of starting a riot. I was looking at serious jail time, but luckily the jails were too full to take us in at the time."

"You bet," said a voice from the back. "Every time they do something to us and we even squeak, why it's tanks and machine guns."

"You think it'll be any different here?" old Mrs. Andrews quavered. "Oh, no, they'll come in with their guns and gas, and if we don't just give up and leave, they'll start killing us."

"So what's our choice?" Eric cried out desperately. "Die here or die outside?"

No one said anything Joe noted with satisfaction. Struggle was useless, the best you could do was cringe.

Which is how it seemed to everyone else, it seemed. People shuffled to the front table picked up their little packets of cash, and shuffled towards the door.

"It was bad killing Willy like that," Charley abruptly broke the silence. "Real bad. Anybody who done something bad like that shouldn't be allowed to get away with it." He raised his head. "I know this Fill pretty well. Anybody tries to find me, they can't if I don't want. Anyone who wants in and I don't want them in, they won't get in, that's a promise. I got stuff too, I know about. Nasty things people just throw out. Army's thrown out lots of things, for instance. I know where it all is."

"Are you saying we could put up a good fight if it came to that?" Wanda asked.

"We sure could make this Fill mighty uncomfortable and unprofitable. And that's the whole point, isn't it? Make it hot enough so they don't make that money they want so much? Besides, you folks got a choice. Maybe you can make it out there, maybe you can't. Me, I know for sure. I was born here, I'm a child of the Fill. My lungs don't work right outside, I tried it. My head hurts too. Feel sick even. I can't do it; 'couldn't do it if I wanted. I'm staying and that's final. Anyone wants to stay with me, we can give them a pretty bad time."

"But can we win?" Agnes asked. "I've got two children."

"Hey," said a veteran from one of the many wars of the week, "I've seen little tiny countries fight the Empire to a standstill. Look at Vietnam. Everybody thought they'd get squashed like bugs, but in the end it was Uncle Sammy on the run."

"If they can do it, so can we," Mr. Weaves piped up surprising himself most of all. Someone clapped. They all started yelling and clapping. Even Joe found himself jumping up and down. The fight for the Fill was on!

Wanda was just leading Joe over the top of the heap into the truck dumping zone. They were late, as usual, for early pickings because Joe kept falling into holes. Something was up. A large group of Fillers were gathered down below around the idling bulldozers which were surrounded by a large group of security guards all in black wearing gas masks and leading large dogs. She could just make out Mr. Weaves, Eric and Agnes with her two kids. Arms were waving, people were yelling, and then shots were fired. The Fillers ran. Mr. Weaves stumbled; then fell on his face. Suddenly one of the dozers roared to life. It was Mike. Bringing the dozer up to top speed, he got between the Fillers and the pursuing guards. The Fillers got away. She watched aghast as Mike was drug down from the cab and beaten senseless by a gang of guards.

The Fillers gathered in the shadow of a smoldering heap angry and shaken. Eric could only sit there shaking his head muttering over and over again:

"He's dead, he's dead." Agnes herself was hopping mad. The others were either angry or quiet. A couple wanted to negotiate with the new owners of the Fill.

"Talk?!" Agnes exclaimed outraged. "What do you think we were doing when they shot us?"

"Maybe we could talk more politely."

"I say we hit back and hit them hard," Agnes said with a cold gleam in her eye. "They want to make money? We'll make sure they don't make a thin dime. We'll make sure this Fill costs them millions. We can do it. Are you with me?" Everyone yelled in such loud agreement they drowned out the distant dozers.

It was the guard dogs that started disappearing first. Soon the secret community center had recipes for dog pie, dog stew, fillet of dog scattered all over the community bulletin boards. After that the Fillers started visiting the yards late at night where trucks and dozers sat in long silent rows. Come next morning they would be missing important parts like belts, pumps, key hydraulics, and even engines. Fill productivity went way down.

Way down. With the trucks incapacitated, garbage started piling up in the wealthier suburbs, well-heeled suburbanites were seriously inconvenienced. They demanded a final solution.

"If they can't get the garbage out of here, then give the contract to someone who can!" a portly Republican small businessman huffed at the local city council meeting.

"Get that guy's name and address," Alphonse L. Refuse leaned over to his lawyer. Refuse was the lean, sallow-faced Chairman and chief stockholder of Refuse International. They had contracts for garbage on every continent. He was easily a billionaire.

"Mr. Refuse," the Mayor asked deferentially with a wide shit-eating grin, "would you like to respond?" Alphonse Refuse rose as did his lawyers and a phalanx of armed guards. Clearing his throat, he looked out over the well-dressed crowd disdainfully as they watched him with hostile yet admiring eyes. Garbage might be piling up all over the streets, the public health department might have declared a health emergency with the proliferation of plague bearing rats, but after all, Mr. Refuse was rich, extremely rich and with this group of petty movers, shakers, pimps and money grubbers, that carried real weight. Whatever had been bothering Mr. Refuse's throat, he expectorated towards the floor hitting one of his expensive hand-tooled Italian leather loafers that cost more than a month's salary for the any normal person lucky enough to be working a fifty six hour week. A lawyer hastened over to wipe the shoe clean with his silk tie.

"Ladies, gentlemen, fellow Republicans," Mr. Refuse began, "I've heard your opinions tonight, and believe me, I even bothered to pretend to listen and that's saying quite a lot. Yes, we do have a problem. Refuse International, which is a wholly-owned subsidiary of Refuse Trans-Global, has signed a contract to remove the city's garbage and reprocess it. We intend to honor that contract. Unfortunately, we are dealing with an international terrorist ring."

"An international terrorist ring?" one member of the audience stood up incredulously. "That's ridiculous. Those people are fellow citizens who are merely trying to make a living."

"Who is that woman?" Refuse asked his first lawyer. The question was whispered from senior lawyer to more junior lawyers until one young recent Harvard graduate passed a memo to the mayor who was on retainer to the Corporation.

"Making a living?" the pudgy small business owner rose to his feet. Although he was hoping to make it hot for Refuse International in the hopes of making some money, he had little patience for the speaker, Joan Diffle, a woman who ran two of the city's overcrowded soup kitchens. "That garbage is our garbage. We threw it away."

"Throwing something away entails the fact that you no longer want it. If you wanted it, you would keep it, am I not correct?"

"Mrs Diffle!" the Mayor stood up speaking shrilly. "We are not in the mood to hear your typically socialist arguments, this is a serious discussion."

"Those people are just trying to survive."

"Then let them pay like the rest of us."

"But-"

"Shut up!" a large muscle bound man said sitting next to her. He owned a chain of local gyms where those who wished to and had an adequate income could buff themselves up a bit.

"I beg your pardon, I have a right to my-ouf," she groaned painfully. Her neighbor had sucker punched her in the kidney. Mr. Refuse smiled with satisfaction as Mrs. Diffle crumpled to the floor. Sometimes, the only thing people understood was the rough stuff. That certainly had been his and his forebears experience in the garbage business.

"As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted by this left wing Fem-Nazi," he smiled winking at the crowd conspiratorially, "we are dealing with an international terrorist group with ties to Libya. These aren't just poor scum stealing what we have rightfully tossed onto the garbage heap. These are dangerous assassins and saboteurs who have already incapacitated millions of dollars worth of equipment. The fact that we have such dangerous enemies has not only affected our stock, but has had serious repercussions on other waste recycling corporations and a not negligible effect on our national stock market quotations. Are you going to let these vermin interfere with your consumption patterns? What makes them any different from our enemies overseas? I say we slaughter anyone who interferes with our stock market dividends. The fate of Free Enterprise is in our hands!"

Panicked by the thought of any threat to their mutual fund dividends no matter how meager, the crowd applauded him enthusiastically. Refuse smiled confident in the knowledge that any threat to their cushy lifestyles could prod this particular group of Americans into almost any obscenely grotesque behavior.

"So what do you want from us?" a short woman in pink running shorts asked as she nervously stroked her mink stole.

"Only one simple little thing. And it won't cost you, the taxpayers, a single cent," Refuse said smoothly.

"Not cost us a cent?" the Mayor beamed expansively as an enthusiastic murmur bubbled through the crowd.

"Not one cent," Refuse repeated. "When Refuse International, a wholly owned subsidiary of Refuse Galactic, decides to do a job, by God we do it. Unless of course there are unforeseen circumstances that threaten to disrupt our normal eighty-five percent target rate of return. Yes, good citizens of...", and he had to turn to one of his lawyers to be reminded of the town's name, "good citizens of Boise, yes. You pass me this one little law and every one on Wall Street will be happy and your mutual fund investments will be forever safe."

"And what would this law be?" the Mayor asked rhetorically knowing perfectly well the answer to his question because the law was his idea in the first place.

"I want you to declare it illegal for any person that is not employed by Refuse International, it's parent company, or any of it's contractors to trespass on what was formerly known as the Boise Sanitary Fill and is now the sole property of Refuse International."

"Wait a minute," a young lawyer for the City stood her face perplexed. "The agreement states that you shall be the operator, not the owner of the Fill."

"In light of the present emergency, the City deems it necessary to deed the property over to the Contractor," the Mayor stammered.

"But that site is worth several million dollars and is the only suitable land fill sight within a hundred and fifty mile radius," the young lawyer protested. She was new obviously and soon to be newly unemployed.

"Get that person's name and address," Mr. Refuse spoke in a low voice. His lawyers passed a note to the guards.

"But-"

"You are out of order!" the Mayor screeched.

"If we may get back to the central issue of terrorism here," Mr. Refuse said in a bored tone while taking a long look at his watch. He was due to board his private jet to Bali in fifteen minutes for a little R and R at a charitable little private school for orphaned girls he owned. The crowd shifted uncomfortably in their seats. After all, they were taking up the time of a very rich man. "As I was saying, the bill proposes that anyone caught trespassing on Refuse Inc. property will be immediately detained with a small proviso here that if they resist in any way, guards will be allowed to proceed with the usual standard interrogation techniques, techniques which I might add were developed by the US government and its agencies and routinely used in domestic and international situations as sanctioned by the Supreme Court of the United States. In addition to this, Refuse Inc security personnel will be allowed, at their discretion, to shoot to kill." He handed the paper back to his first lawyer who handed it to the next lawyer and so on. "Are there any questions? I thought not. Can we put this to a vote?" A forest of hands shot up immediately. "Thank you very much," Mr. Refuse smiled faintly. "You may all return to your homes." The crowd filed out obediently except for the young lawyer and Ms. Diffle. Their bodies were found at the Fill the next day.

Joe crept carefully through stacks of mist-shrouded crates. It was here entire factories and assembly lines had been discarded as corporations ate corporations shedding formerly productive operations and employees for immense tax deductions based on accelerated schedules of depreciation and off-shore investment subsidies. Wanda had asked him to look for light bulbs. He was amazed at what appeared to be perfectly good machinery which would all be melted down into scrap, exported, and then re-imported as televisions, cars, and expensive gadgets for America's insatiable defense industry. It was raining. Depressed, Joe sat on a steel drum and waited for Wanda to return.

Because of the morning's heavy rain, the corporation's black helicopters weren't flying overhead. Joe was relieved. It was impossible to search for light bulbs when someone was always trying to spray you with machine gun fire. It kind of reminded him of Korea except this time--unlike before--he was on the business end of massive and almost overwhelming force. Still there was plenty you could do if you got creative. He was still chuckling over that mass of baling wire they had catapulted into the blades of one helicopter which then spun out of control crashing into a ball of flame. These Fillers were scrappers you had to give them that. He was just lighting up the butt-end of a cigarette when he heard footsteps crunching through the junk.

"Find that light bulb?" he asked.

"Sure didn't," a voice said as the icy cold muzzle of an automatic pistol kissed the back of Joe's neck.

"Agent Joe Frydegg, FBI," Joe said quickly hoping like hell he could find his badge and ID.

"You don't say, garbage rat," the voice hissed.

"I can prove it," Joe croaked suddenly feeling icy cold.

"We'll do the proving here," the voice chuckled. The pistol left the back of his neck briefly; then descended with force.

Joe was revived after several hours of questioning and brought into the presence of the several lawyers, managers, and accountants who had been charged with the successful implementation of Boise City Code 34-589. He was dumped unceremoniously on the floor.

"Well, Agent Frydegg, your story checked out. We did eventually decide to call Washington. Sorry for the slight inconvenience," the head lawyer said. Joe groaned. They had questioned him fairly severely. His left ear had been torn off partially and clumsily reattached with a glue gun. He was missing patches of scalp and three fingernails.

"That's quite all right," Joe insisted trying to get to his feet. His legs gave out from under him; he sagged to the floor.

"According to Washington," the lawyer continued, "you have been assigned to track Libyan terrorists."

"That was the game plan, yes," Joe said breathing heavily. The electroshock he had been subjected to had his heart still flopping around in his chest like a hooked trout.

"Coffee? Cigarette?" the Manager of Security asked. He himself had been sacked from the Bureau years ago for stealing from petty cash but had no hard feelings because now he made about six times more in salary plus generous stock options not to mention a tidy sum in watches, jewelry, and gold fillings taken from those he questioned or disappeared.

"Uh, I don't think so," Joe said wondering if he might be having a heart attack. It would have been his third in the last two days.

"Nevertheless," the senior lawyer said checking his expensive hand-tooled Italian designer watch, "one wonders, including your superiors in Washington, just what you were doing in the Boise Landfill?"

"Tracking terrorists, of course," Joe said. The group laughed. "What's so funny?" he wanted to know.

"Libyan terrorists in the Boise Landfill?" the Chief of Security grinned.

"Hey," Joe said defensively, "you said so yourself on the news."

"Hey, if the Feds can blame everything from ingrown toenails to unemployment on terrorists, we can too. Libyan terrorists, that's a good one. Nothing but a bunch of home grown garbage rats."

"Actually," Joe held up his hand officiously, "through careful research and at great personal risk, I have determined that they are linked." Corporate bureaucrats looked uneasily at each other just as Joe knew they would. Despite their outward cynicism, these guys were almost always fairly willing victims to their own bullshit.

"Uh, gee," one of the junior lawyers said uneasily, "if these people actually are dangerous international terrorists, I request to be reassigned."

"Me too, my contract says nothing about undue risk or bodily injury."

"I have a wife and family to consider," said another.

"Not to speak of a very active investment portfolio," said another.

"Call my secretary for plane tickets," called the last as they all crowded through the door.

"Everyone one of you get back here!" ordered the Senior Accountant. The bean counter, as usual, was the real leader in the room. "Immediately!" The lawyers all looked at each other and trundled back reluctantly.

"Why?" asked the Chief of Security who'd been halfway down the hall.

"Because if you don't, I will tell on you to Mr. Refuse, and you'll be in very deep doo-doo." Everyone sat down. It wasn't wise to offend Mr. Refuse. You could get 'questioned' or worse.

"I suggest we talk to our FBI agent friend—we are friends, aren't we?" he smiled at Joe.

"Uh, sure," Joe said as he was helped into a chair. Someone stuck a lit cigarette in his mouth and wrapped his hand around a cup of hot coffee.

"Well?" the Chief Accountant asked drumming his extremely well-manicured fingers on the desk impatiently.

"Huh?" Joe looked up startled still not quite in possession of his faculties, which were typically quite weak.

"What are your plans?" the accountant demanded.

"Maybe he needs a little more questioning" the Chief of Security suggested smacking a truncheon into his open palm.

"Uh, no, sorry," Joe apologized taking a long drag on his cigarette even though it made his chest ache. So what if he had another heart attack? Who the hell wanted to live? "My plan, you want to know my plan? Well, actually," he said desperately scanning the wall as if a plan were written down that he could read aloud. "My plan? Yes, uh, sirs, gentlemen, I guess, uh, I guess, uh, my plan would be to uh, shit, I mean, uh, yeah, first my plan, uh, is, uh, ask for your suggestions." He looked around the room blinking uncertainly. "Yeah, I uh, guess, I would like to hear your suggestions. Sounds like a plan to me"

"Our suggestions?" the accountant said looking around at the faces of his colleagues. They too, like Joe stared uneasily at the ceiling and walls.

"Exit" said one of the lawyers who just happened to read aloud what was written on the sign over the door.

"Exit?" Joe repeated.

"Yeah, uh, sure, you know," the lawyer said pulling at his button-down collar. He turned bright red.

"Yeah, that's right," Joe said noting the Chief Accountant's growing displeasure. Being a practiced bureaucrat, Joe knew the warning signs. It didn't really matter what he said as long as he said something. "Exit. That's the plan's name."

"Yes, well, that's a good start," the Chief Accountant looked at him expectantly.

"And, uh, well, I guess the point of the plan, well, is to get them, the Fillers, to exit the Fill."

"Good, I like that," the Accountant said with satisfaction. "And where will we get them to exit to? I ask that because the Mayor has already requested that they not migrate back into Boise where undesirables are already present in overwhelming, some say dangerously overwhelming, numbers."

"Uh, yeah, right," said Joe feeling extremely uncomfortable at his situation. The Fillers had saved his life, heck, they were family. How could he justify participating in their removal from the Fill even if it saved his skin? "So, I think," he clearing his throat, "I think uh the most effective thing we could do is you know, uh, is do like we did with the Indians. Yeah, that's right, like the Indians."

"How do you mean: lie, cheat, exterminate, give them disease?" asked the Accountant drumming his fingers impatiently once more.

"Well, yeah, sure, those are options, I guess, but, I'm thinking, maybe, uh, wouldn't it be easier and more, you know," and he paused for a moment to find the right magical incantation, "cost effective if we, I mean you, I mean, Mr. Refuse, who of course represents our best interests, if uh, the Indians, I mean, the Fillers were given a small part of the Fill as their very own piece of, you know, reservation?"

"You're saying we sign over part of the Boise Fill to them?" the Chief Accountant said.

"Yeah, it's like, well they're only trying to make a living. You let them have one little corner, you take the rest. I think they could live with that."

"Really?" the Accountant said looking down at his desk.

"Makes sense from a security viewpoint," the Chief of Security piped up.

"How so?"

"Well sir, you know those Fillers have been kicking our butts pretty bad out there. If they'd be satisfied with one little corner of the Fill, I say let them have it."

"Hmm," said the Accountant scribbling out a few figures on the table linen. After a few moments, he looked up. "It works out with the figures. Let me call Mr. Refuse and see what he thinks." He picked up the phone.

They waited in the conference room for most of the day. Finally, Mr. Refuse returned the call. The Accountant spoke on the phone for several minutes outlining his plan and listened for the billionaire's response. Quickly his face grew pale; he lost his habitual smug smirk.

"Actually, sir," he stammered into the phone flicking his tongue over dry lips, "it's was all that FBI agent's idea. Yes, can you believe it? Yes, I agree--typical government thinking. Yes, sir, I'm so sorry to bother you. Thank you for your time." He put the receiver down gently and sat there for several minutes shaking as he tried to collect himself. Finally he looked up at the anxious assembled faces. "I don't think I've ever been so frightened in my life. He doesn't like the plan, hates it; says it sets a bad precedent. Other social and economically invalid subgroups might come to expect a significant share of garbage for free. Although, he did admit it looked cost-effective in the short run." He stopped, looked at them all and began to sob uncontrollably. His assistants led him away.

"Let's hear your ideas on surveillance," the Senior Lawyer demanded secretly sure no matter what awful things Refuse had said, he wouldn't have cracked like that. After all, he reminded himself proudly, he had survived a fraternity initiation at Yale.

"Surveillance?" Joe repeated stupidly. He was having trouble staying awake. "Oh, yeah, surveillance, well, uh, I think I should continue to, you know, uh, follow them, get to know what they do, map their locations, et cetera, et cetera."

"Right," agreed the Senior Lawyer smoothing his well-groomed chemically enhanced hair. "Time is of the essence. We will expect your report in two days."

"Two days?" Frydegg choked.

"Okay, three, but no more."

"I'm going to need at least three weeks," he insisted. "There's a lot of groundwork to be accomplished. How am I going to sell them out without developing the proper climate of trust?"

"That's the key word right there," the Senior Lawyer smiled looking very pleased with himself. "Sell out. That means we buy. Agent Frydegg, the sooner you deliver up these Fillers, the sooner you yourself will earn an extremely comfortable bonus." He scribbled a figure on a piece of scrap paper and passed it to Joe who read it and gasped. It was more money than he'd made in several years. That much cash meant unlimited booze and a motor home, but could he do it? Could he sell out Wanda and Alice and her kids and all the rest who had fed him and protected him all this time? Hey, hell yes, this was America. He owed it to himself. He reached out to shake the lawyer's hand. An assistant stood to fill in.

"Where the hell you been?" Wanda asked with a worried expression as Joe trudged through trash to a well-camouflaged front door.

"I, uh, got to uh, poking around, and...you know..." He paused to glance at her a second guiltily. "I got lost."

"Jeez, Joe, I thought they'd grabbed you or something," she smiled relieved. "Come on in, I made your favorite: Pick of the Day Soup." Guilt or no guilt, Joe was starved. Wanda dished him up a bowl.

"Want some bread with that?" she asked with motherly concern. He nodded. She shaved off the really moldy part of a dry heel and spread it with rancid butter.

"Mmm, good," Joe smiled spooning down bits of mystery meat bobbing in tasty broth. Suddenly, overwhelmed by a wave of uncontrollable remorse, he collapsed face down on the on the rickety table sobbing.

"Poor Joey," Wanda sympathized giving his shoulders a motherly rub. Joe only wept all the harder. To think he was getting a motor home in return for selling out the people who treated him better than his own relatives—whoever they were. He kept weeping. Seeing he was inconsolable, Wanda shrugged finally and went to watch TV. She turned on the evening news.

"In an exciting breakthrough, Refuse Security personnel announced today that they managed to capture an elusive "Filler" several days ago." Pictures of Refuse security personnel were shown dragging a body up a set of steps by the heels. Wanda squinted. The picture wasn't that good and years of close factory work hadn't done much for her eyesight.

"Hey Joe!" she called out. "Ain't that you?"

"Huh? What?" he asked sitting up straight and blinking the tears out of his eyes."

"The Filler," continued the announcer, "was brought in for prolonged and extensive questioning according to officials who predicted in advance that the strange mutant Libyan terrorist would not survive exposure to a normal environment. Here to comment on that is Refuse International scientist, Dr. Wade Hopsack." A picture was shown of a disheveled man with uncombed hair and wearing what looked like the uniform of gas station mechanic.

"Yeah, that's right. You see, the Fillers have mutated somehow from we normal human beings and as such can no longer interbreed. In fact, in light of recent studies, autopsies, and live tests, we at Refuse International have determined that these strange mutants are a threat to human life as we know it and that their social organization is communist."

"Which means that we are completely entitled to exterminate them completely?" asked an interviewer from off-stage.

"Uh, yeah, that's our considered opinion." Wanda flipped off the set.

"All right, honey," she turned to Joe, "fess up. You got captured, didn't you? Why'd they let you go?"

"Uh, I escaped," Joe said in a small voice.

"Come on, buddy," Wanda said gently, "even though I worked breathing toxic fumes in a factory all my life, I ain't stupid. Now that I'm reminded of it, you're acting just like a guilty stoolie with all this crying and everything. So what happened?" Joe spilled the beans. Next thing he knew, she was dragging him off to an emergency meet with the rest of the Fillers at a secret hiding place deep in the guts of the Fill.

"You were going to sell us out for how much?" Alice asked incredulously as the rest of the group stared.

"Thirty grand," Joe admitted.

"What'd you tell them so far?" Eric wanted to know standing there bare-chested and armed to the teeth looking like a downscale Rambo.

"Nothing."

"I bet you're lying. Mommy he's lying," a little kid accused pulling on his mother's sleeve.

"I don't know what I told them," Joe admitted. "They tortured me."

"Well I wouldn't tell them anything," another little kid claimed the expression on his face real mean.

"To tell you the truth," said Charley, "we could push Joe right out the front door and he'd get lost."

"But he knows us," Alice claimed. "He knows how many we are and our names."

"You're a security breach, kid," Wanda said sadly. "I guess the best thing we can do is get rid of you."

"Get rid of me?" Joe's guts melted. He'd jumped from the fire right back into the frying pan. Wanda sat down sadly as the others watched. She was a lonely old woman. They knew she'd enjoyed having someone around her trailer for a change.

"Hey, Wanda," Eric said, "you can move in with me."

"Are you kidding?" she brightened. "I've seen your housekeeping. You'd put a garbage dump to shame."

"So I'll keep the crate a little cleaner," he said sheepishly.

"Nah, that's all right. But you're welcome to come to my place tomorrow for dinner."

"You're on."

"Hey, that's all wonderful and touchy-feely," Alice broke in as the assembled group clapped and stomped. "But what are we gonna do about this Fed?"

"See you, Joe," Wanda said sadly giving him one last wave. "You take care." Joe stood there watching her disappear into the Fill's murk from where he stood outside the fence. A Refuse Security armored personnel carrier had just passed making its rounds. Huddling against the night's chill and the only real home he'd ever had in years, Joe slunk off. He passed a bar. He was depressed. Man, did he need a drink. Fingering his thirty dollar advance from Refuse International, he threw caution to the winds and went in.

"Buy a gal a drink?" a rough voice rasped in his ear. Joe didn't even bother to turn. In the dim reflection of the seedy old tavern's mirror, he could just make out a frowsy looking middle aged woman with a cigarette stub hanging from her mouth.

"Get lost," he said. He couldn't afford to treat anyone no matter how sexy.

"That's no way to treat a lady, Handsome. Hey," she slurred drunkenly in his ear, "you buy us a six pack and we can go back to my place and drink it."

"You got a place?" Joe said thinking he wouldn't mind staying in a bed. He'd been planning on the street.

"Real nice," she smiled plopping herself down on the bar stool next to him.

"Got another smoke?" he wondered, but she was snoring. He took the one from her gaping mouth.

"Hey, sport," the bartender said loudly in his direction, "you been nursing that beer three hours and a half. Buy another or get out!" The other patrons laughed loudly hoping the bartender hadn't noticed they'd been doing the same themselves.

"Yeah, fuck you," Joe replied careful to mumble under his breath. He shook the woman sleeping next to him. Starting awake she flapped her arms like a disturbed chicken. "You said we could go to your place if I bought you a beer."

"So buy me a beer."

"Hell, I been buying you drinks all evening," Joe lied. "You're so drunk you can't remember."

"You sure?" she asked suspiciously as Joe propelled her out the door.

"Come on," he insisted, "I've got to use the bathroom."

Joe ended up peeing off the curb. Betty had tumbled into the nearest junked car. Joe joined her in the back seat.

By morning, the car was stuffed with drunks all huddling together for warmth. Joe woke to find someone's smelly socks in his face.

"Good morning," Betty snuggling into him. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

"What?" he asked.

"What do you think, asshole, the sex?"

"Yeah, right," Joe lied. "You were great. Best I ever had." Actually he hadn't had sex in some fifteen years and even that had cost a week's pay.

"You liked me, huh?" Betty replied batting her eyes like a down-at-the-heels chorus girl.

"You bet. Got a smoke?"

"I got some at my place."

"I thought this was your place."

"Are you kidding? This was just a place to get laid and sleep it off." Untangling herself from the other drunks, she crawled out.

"So you really got a place?" Joe followed with no little interest. "Like with a roof, and a shower, and some food?"

"Sure," Betty said hitching up her mini skirt as she lurched off down the road.

Betty had a place. The roof leaked, it was cockroach infested, the shower only worked when it rained and even a refrigerator that was empty except for several bottles of already opened beer and a half loaf of molded bread.

"This is nice," Joe said swigging one of the stale beers. It was even better than his own rented basement room back in Washington.

"So why don't you do me, hunk?" Betty asked in a raspy voice. Joe turned. She was standing in the middle of the room completely naked. The sight of her reminded Joe of his last real inflatable girlfriend after it had developed a slow leak "This time I'll remember 'cause I'm sober." Joe's mouth fell open dropping his cigarette which ignited a small pile of paper.

"Talk about making it hot," Betty breathed huskily as Joe stomped out the small blaze. She pushed him back onto the bed.

Joe watched Betty sleep with certain mixed feelings. On one hand, her snoring made him want to choke her to death; on the other, she'd actually seen his privates and hadn't laughed. He sighed surveying cockroaches as they scurried out of a chipped porcelain sink. Pulling tattered underwear over his skinny shanks, he borrowed Betty's razor, shaved, dressed and went out looking for a cup of coffee and the paper. He returned to find Betty sitting up in bed.

"You came back?" she said sounding surprised.

"Sure," Joe said trying to smile. It was an expression he seldom used.

"You get me a doughnut?" she asked. Ruefully, Joe reached in his pocket and handed her the dough nut he had shoplifted.

"All right," Betty grinned. How'd you know my favorite was coconut?"

"Must be fate," Joe said slightly disappointed. He had grabbed coconut specifically because he'd hoped she wouldn't like it. Most didn't.

"What a sport," she smiled broadly showing a mouthful of stained and broken teeth. She quickly inhaled the pastry.

"Coffee?" Joe asked and then mentally kicking himself for this uncharacteristic burst of altruism. Betty drained most of the cup, spilled the rest on his paper, and broke into tears. Joe was ready to have a fit. Strangely enough, he couldn't. Was this love? "There, there," he mumbled clumsily stroking her knobby back.

"So, what are we gonna do today?" Betty finally asked. "You got a job?"

"A job?" Joe repeated stupidly remembering he was active duty FBI. "No," he lied.

"Got a dime, sir?" Joe asked holding out his hand as he cringed. The last three prosperous looking businessmen he'd asked had actually struck him.

"Get a job," the man snarled pushing Joe out of the way as he hurried off to see how his mutual fund was paying today.

"You want to try the elementary school across the street?" Betty asked from her seat on the park bench. "Some of the kids have extra lunch money."

"Jesus," Joe said looking at the change in his hands. "All I got in three lousy hours is thirty-five cents."

"Got anything you can sell?" Betty asked. Joe thought about it.

"How much can I get for this?" he asked the guy at the pawn shop flashing his FBI badge."

"Nothing," the shop owner said looking the other way.

"Hey, it's solid gold plate," Joe protested.

"Hey, check the display case. I got cop badges up the kazoo and most of them are fake." Joe stalked out.

"That's okay, baby," Betty soothed, "you can always sell blood."

"Sell blood to buy booze?"

"Hey, where do you think I got my last couple bucks?"

"You okay?" she asked concerned as Joe stumbled out of the blood bank.

He fell over.

"You were so brave," Betty smiled taking the bills from his hand. She scurried off to the liquor store.

"This should keep us going through tonight," she said cracking open a vodka bottle and giving him the first swig. "Tomorrow I get my check."

"You get a check?" Joe smiled still too weak to move. He had finally found his dream girl. They staggered home.

"Ain't this the life?" Betty smiled contentedly her prematurely arthritic hand gripping the bottle tightly.

"You bet," agreed Joe sucking on a cigarette as he settled his head between her breasts. "So what's this check for anyway?"

"My husband died. I get his Social Security. It ain't enough to keep a decent place and food in the fridge, but hell, I can rent this flop and keep myself stoned; at least for a couple weeks every month." She looked at him with a wide-eyed pleading expression. "Oh, Joe, you do love me, don't you? It ain't just the money?" He kissed her. They both took another long drink.

After three days of steady drinking and cigarettes, Joe got to hankering for solid food.

"I heard they were giving away free cheese at the park," Betty smiled.

"Yeah?" Joe said with interest. "Who?"

"I don't know. I think it's the Mayor and some guy named Refuse."

Joe couldn't even see the back of the free cheese truck for all the hundreds of people massed around.

"Boy, what a mob," Betty said excitedly taking a little nip from her gin.

"There ain't gonna be anything left by the time we get there," Joe groused.

"Hey, watch where you stick that cigarette," complained an old lady.

"Sez you," Joe snapped giving the old woman a sharp shove.

"Don't you hit my Ma," snarled a big teenager swinging a big fist. Joe saw stars.

"Joe, Joe, honey, you feeling any better?" Betty said looking down on him from above. He lay propped up against the roots of a dying elm.

"Uhhhh," he groaned.

"He really popped you one, didn't he?" Betty said taking herself a sip of gin. "But don't you worry, I got us the cheese—a whole ten pounds; looks good too. I don't usually eat too much, but I was gonna try a bite. You ready for some food?"

"Uhhhh," Joe groaned slipping back into quasi-consciousness

When he awoke it was just getting dark. Sitting up with a hell of a headache he could just make out Betty slumped against the tree.

"Shit, I hope she saved some cheese for me," he mumbled crawling over. The empty gin bottle was lying in the grass but she was clutching a brick of cheese with the corner gnawed off. He tried to grab it. She was clutching it pretty hard. "Betty?" he asked but she was staring at the stars with a mouthful of half-chewed cheese. "Betty?" Joe asked again standing up. All around them, bodies lay slumped against park benches, trees, and sprawled on the grass. All of them clutched half-chewed chunks of cheese.

"Hey, buddy!" a voice called from the shadows. "Wouldn't you like some nice free cheese?" Joe ran.

SEVENTEEN
It had taken some doing, but Syl finally managed to catch up with Peg on the George Washington Bridge during rush hour when traffic had slowed to a dull crawl.

"How you doing, honey?" Peg grinned broadly as Syl jumped aboard.

"I've been better," Syl said trying to smile back.

"Well, you're looking great. I understand you've become a truck driving fool."

"Shorty did need a vacation. I was just filling in a bit."

"And how's that man of yours, Carl?" There was no answer but the honking of impatient horns. Peg looked over. Tears were trickling down the side of Syl's nose.

"I lost him." Syl sobbed and told Peg the whole story.

"So that's it? You're just going to give him up 'cuz some rich bastard wants him?" Peg asked.

"What choice have I got?"

"He's your man!"

"But..."

"But, nothing." Peg's next load was for Washington.

"It's certainly an interesting case," the tall cadaverous looking figure said leaning back in his imported Italian leather stuffed chair as Blowfish attempted to peer through the gloom. He was trying to read the Reverend's expression but it was just too damned murky. Blowfish shifted his bulk uncomfortably in the undersized chair. Did he just hear a scream? Hell, this place was creepier than Langley and that was a creepy place.

"So you'll help my boy?" Blowfish asked eagerly leaning forward.

"It's not me helping your boy," the Reverend's oily voice slithered through the shadows. "The help comes from 'Him'." The Reverend turned his eyes piously to the ceiling.

"And how much does, uh, 'He' charge?" Blowfish asked glancing upwards himself.

"His fees," the Reverend said looking up once more, "depend on the client's ability to pay."

"Careful, now, God," Blowfish joked looking up himself, "I'm only a poor public servant." The Reverend chuckled, a sound reminiscent of bones rattling in a coffin. He slid over a stack of papers.

"What's this?" Blowfish stared uneasily.

"As His divinely appointed representative on earth, we have many resources. It's a complete report on your financial net worth."

"Is that so?" the Senator said reaching for the report with a cruel smirk. In moments he pushed the papers back, chagrined. "I'm impressed." The report was accurate--too damned accurate. The Reverend was clearly a dangerously well-connected man.

"As I said," said the Reverend now his turn to smirk. "Still, the true wealth of a public servant is not his personal wealth; rather it is the leverage he enjoys. You enjoy considerable leverage, Senator. Therefore He..," the Reverend looked up to the ceiling once more, "is more than willing to make a deal."

"Is that so?" smiled Blowfish relieved he wouldn't have to part with any cash. Leverage huh? This was a game he knew well. "Oh, I ain't so all-fired influential as that," the Senator said bashfully in his best down-home, aw-shucks, I'm-just-a-hick drawl. The Reverend laughed again. There was a sudden dying squeak in the corner. Out of the darkness padded an enormous black cat with the small corpse of a mouse dangling from its teeth. Hopping to the center of the desk, it sat and devoured its meal.

"A good little hunter, that one," said Blowfish stretching out his hand to pet the beast. It hissed at him baring it's fangs.

"Yes, an excellent cat," said the Reverend his face still hidden in shadow. "I particularly appreciate his ability to decimate the local bird population. You can't imagine how difficult it is to pray, meditate, and conduct business affairs with all that cursed chirping the livelong day."

"I know exactly what you mean," agreed the Senator who himself had found the liberal spraying of pesticides effective. "I like my place quiet as the grave."

"Speaking of graves, let us see what I can do for your Randolph? I believe he has risen from his?" The Reverend perused the voluminous dossier on the Senator. This Randolph had died long ago. There was certainly ample proof. Why the Senator himself had even demanded a committee investigation. Clearly Blowfish was delusional. The Reverend smiled as he watched the cat pick apart the mouse. "So you only had the one son?" he asked just to be sure the Senator hadn't given the name to another boy. "Not married secretly to anyone else, anything like that?"

"I've had one Randolph, Reverend, and that boy is the apple of my eye. So is 'He' gonna help me or what, Reverend? I am a busy man."

"His lawyers will talk to your lawyers, Senator. I think we can come to some arrangement. Now, would you like a tour of the facilities?"

"I think I'll pass, Reverend," the Senator said checking his watch. Was that another scream?

Since Carl believed the Senator to have brutally murdered his wife, he was not in the least cooperative, which was why he was still heavily sedated at the time of his first interview.

"So, Randolph," the Reverend smiled as Carl glared from the confines of his strait jacket.

"What have you got me all tied up for?" Carl asked angrily jerking his head toward the waiting Senator. "He's the crazy one." The Reverend smiled and touched a button. Carl was subjected to a severe electric shock.

"Son," said the Senator leaning over the prostrate Carl, "I truly hate to do this to you, but you're just gonna have to learn to be polite to your Daddy." Carl drooled. "You're not going to do the boy permanent damage, are you?" the Senator asked turning to the Reverend Jimmy.

"It's not likely, no," the Reverend assured him with an oily smile. "Most of our clients progress from shock treatment fairly quickly. It is quite painful."

"Well, let me know how it's going," the Senator said getting up heavily from his chair. "You got my phone number in Washington."

"I expect to see results in three days."

"That's good. You get me my boy back, Reverend, and that bill you want is as good as passed." Blowfish took one last look at his twitching Randolph and left the room. The Reverend sat there watching Carl. Since he was bored, he amused himself for several minutes pushing buttons to various electrodes attached to Carl's most sensitive parts. Eventually, he left the room.

Days passed, a week. Carl proved to be one of the Reverend's more difficult cases. Despite shock treatments, drugs, and several severe beatings, the young man obstinately refused to acknowledge Blowfish as his father. The Reverend was nervous. He had already invested huge sums of money into his pet project, the Creator's Casino and any delay in getting the Senator to obtain those tax deductions enacted could do him extensive financial damage.

"You promised me results, you skinny-ass son of a bitch!" the Senator screamed during one of his frequent and blood curdling telephone conversations. The truth was, the Reverend usually delivered as he was one of the planet's acknowledged experts in the field of brainwashing. Hell, the man could have made a fortune working for—or creating—his own ad agency, but he preferred to use his talents to build the Church of the Creator Syndicate and it had certainly paid off. Still, he needed that tax deduction. Donations were down despite the fact his membership was concentrated in the upper income levels and he must find another way to fleece the fatted sheep. The Reverend glanced once more at the picture of Carl's late wife. Incomprehensible how could the little idiot be so completely loyal to such an average looking little slut? Didn't he realize the financial and political opportunities at hand? Oh, well, it was the Reverend's experience that reason seldom ruled in these matters--or little else for that matter. If so, he himself would be sweeping floors.

"Good morning Randolph," the Reverend said into a microphone Just beyond the bullet proofed glass window Carl lay securely fastened to a table. Carl refused to make a sound. "Randolph?" the Reverend asked giving the boy a sharp jolt. Carl screamed. "You know I'm going to continue doing that until you say good morning to me."

"Good morning!" Carl yelled.

"And how are you this morning, Randolph?" Carl was silent. He received another jolt. This one knocked him out for a few minutes. "Continue the treatment," the Reverend ordered the assistant. Bored, he left the room. He'd never seen such a stubborn case. He had to find another approach.

"He's in there?" Peg asked staring at the huge gated driveway leading into the vast corporate headquarters of the Reverend Jimmy's Church of the Creator. Through mist-shrouded trees they could see outlines of a ghostly complex of squat one-story buildings capping huge concrete complexes extending deep underground. On a distant knoll, the Gothic outlines of the Reverend's modest sixteen story mansion stood, its cupola capped with a dull red glowing neon cross.

"That's what I understand," Sylvia mused. The grounds were encircled with cyclone fencing and rolls of razor wire. Armed guards patrolled relentlessly. How was she gonna get in?

"Let's look for a loading dock," Peg said swinging the rig to the left.

"Hey, I wonder what they're up to?" Syl asked seeing a long line of young women stretching out a gate marked 'Personnel'".

"Hey, what's up?" Peg asked a pretty young blonde.

"They're recruiting for Jimiettes!" the young woman squealed excited. "Oh, dear sweet Jesus, I hope I'm picked."

"Do you get to go inside?" Syl asked.

"You sure do," the young woman said rapturously, "right in close to the Reverend Jimmy himself."

"Uh, huh," Syl said. She looked at Peg. "That's how I'm going to get inside."

"As a Jimiette? Are you sure?"

"You got any other ideas?" Peg shrugged. Syl hugged her. "I'll call you as soon as I find my man."

The line moved quickly. Nobody talked. Most were too busy praying. She entered a door and was told to strip.

"Why?" she asked a burly looking male attendant.

"A good Jimiette obeys all orders without questions." Sylvia paused. All the other women were quickly undressing. Oh, well, it was the least she could do to save her man. She undressed and joined the line of naked bodies shivering in the air conditioning.

"Now what?" she asked the naked praying girl standing in front of her.

"Shh," she hissed angry at being interrupted during her one-on-one with Jesus. One by one, the women passed through a set of dark curtains. Finally it was Syl's turn.

She entered a huge stage lit so brightly it was impossible to see the audience of giggling pointing businessmen who were being invited to do the work of the Lord and invest their money in Jimmy's newest venture, "Creator Casino."

"Face the audience, please," she was ordered by an unseen stage manager. "Spread your legs, bend backwards." Syl did so feeling embarrassed. The audience cheered. "Name?"

"Uh, Joan?"

"Now, Joan, dear, why do you want to be a Jimiette?"

"Uh...I'm doing it for my husband," she finally stammered. The audience clapped loudly and stamped its feet.

"Really, that's unusually unselfish of him," the voice remarked.

"We could, uh, really use the money." There was silence. Several businessmen coughed. After all, they were here to make money themselves, not give it away to the Jimiettes.

"Hmm," the voice said sounding none too pleased.

"And I really want to do the work of the Lord!" Sylvia added loudly. There was polite applause.

"That's nice, dear. Now take your breasts in both hands and lift. We need cleavage."

The Reverend Jimmy was just happening to share a drink with several extremely well-placed donors when he glanced at the screen. He stopped and stared. Where had he seen that face? It came to him in a flash.

"Goddamn," he said amazed. That woman was the splitting image of Randolph's murdered wife. "Thank you, Jesus," the Reverend said aloud as he strode from the room.

Sylvia knocked on a dark hardwood door.

"Come in," said a voice she knew she recognized from somewhere. She stepped in. The walls were lined with dark velvet. A red neon cross glowed to her right. "Won't you have a seat?" asked a mellifluous oily voice from the shadows. Stretching out her hand, Syl finally found a chair by sense of feel. "What's your name?" The speaker leaned into the glow of the red neon crucifix. Sylvia couldn't breathe. It was Reverend Jimmy!

"Oh, my God, it's you," Syl gushed. "Could I have your autograph please?"

"Certainly," smiled the Reverend taking an 8 by 10 glossy of himself from a huge stack and sliding it over. It was already robo-signed.

In her zeal to grab the picture, Sylvia accidentally touched the Reverend's hand. It burned like dry ice.

"Now dear, what's your name?" he inquired.

"Uh, Peg-- I mean, Joan Trucker," Syl lied. Oh my god, she'd just lied to just about the holiest man on earth!

"Would you mind if I called you Sylvia?"

"Huh?"

"Listen carefully," the Reverend continued from the shadows, "I have on the premises a young man. A certain extremely powerful Senator believes this young man to be his son, which he most assuredly is not. The real son died years ago. Unfortunately, this young man believes that the Senator murdered his wife, which he probably did. The woman, interestingly enough bears a striking resemblance to yourself. Are you starting to catch my drift?" He paused.

"You want me to pretend I'm married to C...?" Sylvia almost blurted but the Reverend interrupted her imperiously.

"Carl is his real name, but the Senator calls him Randolph. The problem is that this extremely stubborn and somewhat dull young man refuses to cooperate."

"But you think I could make him become the Senator's son?"

"Exactly," said the Reverend leaning into the dull red glow of the cross. He was rubbing his hands. "He would be rich, the son of a powerful US Senator. Who knows, he might even become president providing the right advertising agency is hired. You would live a life of luxury and privilege. You are interested, of course?"

"I'll do it!" Sylvia yelled sounding a bit angry. Holy man, her rosy red, this jerk was just as rotten and crooked as the rest!

"Such enthusiasm," the Reverend smiled disappearing back into the shadows. "Then we have your full and complete cooperation?"

"You bet."

"You understand you are a long-term agent of the Reverend Jimmy Corporation subject to corporate direction?"

"Whatever. When can I see Carl?"

The Reverend chuckled.

"Greed is such a wonderful thing. Soon, I'm sure, but first I must convince the Senator that you are our only hope. You wouldn't believe what this idiot Carl has subjected himself to with his misguided loyalty to some completely average little working class bitch with exceedingly average tits." Sylvia gripped the arms of the chair resisting an impulse to grab the Reverend by the throat as he picked up his phone. "Tell the Senator I must meet with him--immediately."

"No, no, no!" Blowfish screamed. "Don't you get it? I just had the bitch murdered."

"But this isn't the real wife," the Reverend explained again barely able to conceal his impatience. "This is only someone that looks like her."

"She's still his goddamned wife, damn you. How am I gonna get him to marry Candace Coffee if he's still married to her?"

"Is marrying Candace Coffee really that important?"

"Reverend, I am white trash made real good. I need the fine old Coffee name in order to impress, well, you know, the right people who make the real decisions in this country."

"Then Senator, what could be better? This wife will gladly divorce Carl if we ask, allowing him to marry whoever you wish."

"Yes, but would he?"

"Senator, she works for you. She's following your orders." After she follows mine, of course, the Reverend added to himself wordlessly.

"Hmm," the Senator pursed his lips. "Okay, we'll try. But no fuck-ups, you understand?"

"Let's visit the examination sector. I predict you'll be quite impressed."

Sylvia sat in the overstuffed couch feeling nervous with anticipation. Was she really going to see her Carl? There was a sudden painful buzzing from the transmitter/receiver fitted to her ear.

"I know it's inconvenient now," the Reverend said his creepy chuckle echoing in her head. "Eventually, we'll have it implanted directly in your skull. That way, we'll always be in communication, you and me and 'Him'." He chuckled darkly as a curtain opened across a sheet of one-way mirrored glass. Carl was seated on a hospital bed. Syl could barely restrain tears. He was wearing a prosthetic device in place of his lower left leg and a long scar trailed across his face ending in a patch of missing hair. Still, other than his poor color and a tremor in his chin, he seemed healthy enough to her.

"Not much to look at, is he?" the Reverend whispered.

"Well, uh, someone people might think he's cute," Syl said anxious to defend her husband.

"Good, I like that," the Reverend cooed, "quite a wifely thing to say."

"May I go in to see him now?"

"My, aren't we eager? Remember, he's still fairly foggy from the treatment process. He may have trouble remembering you." Sylvia rose. The automatic door swooshed open; Carl immediately tried to hide.

"My name's still Carl," he wheezed stubbornly from under his covers.

"Honey?" Syl asked her heart breaking at the sound of his pathetically brave little voice. There was a long pause. Carl was completely still. "Honey, it's me." A small suspicious looking face poked out its nose for a moment from under the bed sheets. It quickly retreated.

"Is this how you guys gonna torture me today, make me think Sylvia is here?"

"Take it very slowly," the Reverend ordered anxiously watching the initial meeting on closed circuit television. "Remember, the Senator is watching every move. If he's not happy, there's no telling what he might do to you."

"Honey, you don't understand. It's me, Sylvia, really," Sylvia said earnestly.

"You sure sound like Sylvia, but they killed you."

"No, they didn't kill me. I got away."

"Good, that's very good," the Reverend whispered into his microphone. "But don't blame the Senator. Blame it on a certain unidentified group of Libyans."

'That's all well and good, Reverend, but he knows I don't like that awful Blowfish," she said aloud.

"Who you talking to?" Carl wanted to know.

"Blowfish's listening, you idiot," Jimmy hissed turning pale as the Senator turned a baleful glance in his direction. This fake Sylvia was just a little too realistic for his taste.

"I mean," Sylvia stopped, "I mean, I didn't like him at first, but I have gotten to know him better."

"I still hate him," Carl hissed as the Senator blanched.

"Oh, honey, he's not so bad," Sylvia said in a soothing tone as she approached her man. Her man couldn't help but cringe. She held out a bag of Korny Kurls. Carl slowly reached out his hand.

"Good, good, I like that," Jimmy added turning triumphantly to the Senator, "the girl's a genius. Believe me, I could torture this boy until the cows come home for all the good it's done, but he's responding just perfectly to her."

"We'll see," the Senator groused outwardly, but deep inside his hollowed flabby chest in the shrunken infinitesimal dried-up bitter little turd of his soul, there was a tiny ray of hope. His Randolph was coming back!

"That was a clever thing you did with those awful orange corny things," the Reverend remarked later at the debriefing. His flinty little eyes held a glimmer of grudging and wary respect.

"Oh, I don't know," Syl said with a helpless shrug, "he just seemed like the type."

"Amazing what those people will eat," the Reverend Jimmy said tossing back his Presleyan shock of hair with disbelief. "Now how soon do you think we can effect a reconciliation with his father—that Libyan angle was brilliant—still, I don't want too much of a reconciliation. Keep him a little cool towards the Senator. That will leave more opportunities to manipulate the father/son relationship. After all, I want you, that is, me to be the main influence in Carl's life." He turned to her with an icy stare. "Be sure you remember that. We have a special little corner in the churchyard for those who have attempted to double-cross 'His' representative on Earth."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Reverend," Sylvia said trying to appear holy and beatific. She wondered if this was a good time to ask for permission to take her man out on a 'walk'. "You know, Carl seems extremely unhealthy. I was thinking a little fresh air might do him good."

"Could be, could be," remarked the Reverend distracted by fantasies of avarice and power. "I'll make an arrangement with Security."

"Do we really need guards, Reverend?" Sylvia asked. "It'll probably just make him nervous. Besides, where can a one-legged crippled man go?"

"The boy's rich, he's the son of a Senator. He'd better start getting used to security guards. That's all he's got between him and the vengeance of the lower orders."

"Couldn't they be there but not be there? You know, like in the distance?"

"I suppose we can keep them at a distance of ten feet." Sylvia's heart sank. Ten feet? How could they ever escape?

"You got any more Korny Kurls?" Carl asked eagerly as she stepped through the automatic door.

"You're looking better this morning, Carl," she smiled.

"I said, Randolph," the Reverend hissed angrily in her ear.

"Honey, would you do me a favor?" she asked producing the Korny Kurls but holding them just out of his grasp. "Would you mind if I call you Randolph just a bit?"

"My name is Carl," Carl's jaw clamped down stubbornly. "And if you don't like it, go ahead and take my other leg, I don't care."

"Carl, honey, it's just for a bit. You'll always be Carl to me."

"But why?" he complained refusing to look her way.

"I don't know. Why is Life so hard? Sometimes you just got to do what you got to do.

"It's that doggone Blowfish, isn't it?" he demanded.

"Honey, I'm afraid so."

"I hate him. I hate that Reverend too. Always smiling and praying while he's hurting me. He's the nastiest guy I ever met."

"Now, honey," she said with an uneasy look at the Reverend's closed circuit television camera, "the Reverend's just trying to do his bit. He doesn't really want to hurt you. He loves you. But he feels he has to hurt you for your own good."

"Excellent," the Reverend whispered, "couldn't have said it better myself."

"What's that noise?" Carl asked suddenly noticing the electronic device in her ear.

"Oh, it's just something that helps me to hear better."

"Let me see," he asked reaching out.

"Can I?" Syl asked the Reverend. She had a wonderful idea.

"Course you can," Carl said looking at her with a funny expression.

"I suppose it can't harm," the Reverend allowed. Sylvia plucked the device out of her ear and handed it to Carl.

"Neat," said Carl cracking the thing open like a nut between his thumb and forefinger. "Hey, look at all the neat stuff inside."

"Damn him," the Reverend cursed reaching for the switch to the hidden back up microphone. He was interrupted by a call.

"Carl, listen carefully," Sylvia said putting her hand on his with a nervous look at the closed circuit television camera. "Do you think you could fix that camera real quick?"

Whatever Carl did to fix the camera made the lights go out too. Amid the confused shouts of disoriented guards, Sylvia was able to find her way down the corridor by feeling with one hand, the other hand firmly clenching Carl. He got along pretty well on that prosthetic device, limping only a little bit.

"Now where are we?" she asked herself at the bottom of a set of stairs. A sign on the door read: **Jimiettes: Authorized Personnel Only**. Behind them she heard the sound of tramping feet on the stairs. "I guess we better go in."

She entered a long dark hallway. Every few feet, a door stood open exposing an unmade bed upon which young, heavily made-up young women lay sprawled out as if dead with needles dangling from their arms.

"Oh, boy, I've seen this before."

"They all sick?" Carl asked.

"You could say that, I guess," Syl shuddered hearing the tramping feet of marching guards. She found herself facing a massive door. "Carl, do you think you could fix the lock on this door?"

Creeping from car to car in the vast parking lot, Syl was real surprised to see Peg working on her rig.

"What are you doing here?" Syl asked.

"A little trouble with my air brakes," Peg said wiping her hands clean with a rag. "Who's this?"

'Don't you recognize Carl?"

"Oh shit," Peg's face fell, her eyes welling with stinging tears. "I guess we'd better get the hell out of here."

"They what?!" Blowfish screamed making a grab for the Reverend's throat.

"I don't know how it happened." the Reverend choked as his guards grappled with the blood-crazed Senator. "There was some kind of power outage, the cameras failed; a major computer breakdown."

"You're a dead man, Reverend," Blowfish panted.

"Come now, Senator, can't we discuss this like two reasonable men? I have insurance for cases like this. You'll be compensated."

"He's my son!" howled the Senator.

"We'll find him. He couldn't have gone far. His wife took him for a walk."

"His wife?!" the Senator stopped in stunned surprise. "His wife?" A sick comprehension slowly dawned across his face. "His wife, goddamn it, I never did see the body. That bitch you hired was her!"

"What are you talking about?" the Reverend gagged as guards attempted to pull Blowfish off the Reverend's throat again.

"I'm saying we were tricked, you goddamned stupid lying son of a bitch!" the Senator screamed. "Get me back my boy!!!"

EIGHTEEN
Frydegg's stomach growled painfully as he slunk along the side of the road. He was going to have to find some better clothes because every time he turned around someone was trying to offer him free cheese and they didn't look too happy when he refused.

"Hey Mister could you help me with my Granddad?" a young voice called. It was the young Ollie trying to push his Grandpa out of the front cab of the truck. The old man had finally died from an overdose of drugs and God.

"What's in it for me?" Joe asked.

"I'll give you a buck." Ollie said.

"Is he dead?" Joe asked checking out the old man's clothes.

"No, you dumb fuck, he can sleep without breathing. Will you hurry it up already?"

"Christ, he's a heavy old fart," Joe grunted pulling on the stiffening corpse with all his might. Suddenly, it tumbled out of the cab pinning him to the street.

"Thanks, sucker," Ollie chortled slamming the truck door shut. He turned on the engine, but his legs were too short to work the clutch and shift the gears. "Shit," the boy cursed as Joe struggled out from underneath the corpse.

"You sure got a fucking dirty mouth for such a little guy," Joe said with admiration as he opened the door.

"Eat my shorts," Ollie snarled weeping in angry frustration.

"I can drive that thing," Joe said. And he could, or at least, did. The Army had made him a truck driver based on his low intelligence test scores. "Move over."

Ollie watched Joe suspiciously from his corner, his right hand gripping Granddad's baseball bat. "Let's get one thing straight," he squeaked.

"What's that?" Joe asked feeling pleased he could still drive. Despite the fact he'd driven in a war zone, it was the best job he'd ever had.

"I'm the boss."

"Suits me. When do I get paid?"

'You don't get it, bub. This is a religious enterprise. All of us work for free."

"Religious, huh?" Joe said shifting into third as they picked up speed on the freeway. "What sort of religious work do you do?"

"I'll show you. Stop right here," Ollie ordered.

"What, by this guy?" Joe asked seeing a tractor trailer rig stopped at the side of the road.

"Shut off your lights," the boy hissed.

"What's going on?" Joe asked as he pulled the rig to the side of the road.

"We're gonna hook on to that trailer and take off." Joe looked around carefully.

"We are?"

"You bet."

"Why?"

"Because, you dumb shit, they are donating that trailer to the Lord."

"You want me to hijack that trailer?" Joe asked not totally unfamiliar with religious talk.

"I'll give you a hundred bucks," Ollie said.

"You'll give me the hundred bucks first," Joe demanded having fallen for that before.

"Come on, mister, give me a break, I'm broke."

"Then do it yourself."

"Shit," Ollie cursed fishing for the money in his pants, "so much for doing the work of the Lord." Counting his money first, Joe backed Ollie's tractor up to the trailer. Ollie was just connecting up the air hoses when Peg drove up in her tractor with Syl and Carl.

"Dammit," she cussed. "You leave a trailer standing there for five minutes and somebody's trying to run off with it." She jumped out of her rig carrying a club. "You mind telling me where you're going with that trailer?" she asked yanking the door open. Joe was just about ready to say something when she smacked him hard across the leg. He screeched. Peg hauled him out of the truck smacking him again as Ollie made a run for it. Syl took out after him catching him by the ear.

"I'd call the cops," she hissed in Joe's ear raising her bat one more time, "but I know you already paid them off."

"It was the kid, he told me it was the Lord's work," Joe gasped.

"Blaming it on God is one thing, but some kid? If that isn't the lowest thing..." Peg said drawing back her bat.

"Might be true in this case," Syl called out dragging Olllie up by the ear.

"Let me go, you goddamned bitch," he squealed. "I'll cut off your tits!"

"Nasty little thing, isn't he?" Syl said.

"Sounds like he needs a good paddling."

So that's just what Ollie got while Carl fixed their truck for only a hundred bucks and Joe got a good punch in the gut for free..

Groaning, Joe came to only to find Ollie's small hands searching his pockets.

"What the hell are you doing?" Joe asked.

"Nothing," Ollie said matter-of-factly.

"Jesus, you're nothing but trouble, kid," Joe said giving Ollie a hard shove.

"Now what do we do?" Ollie asked.

"We're not doing anything."

"Ah, come on," sneered the kid, "you couldn't cross the street without someone to do your thinking for you."

"Eat my shorts." Joe staggered off. He paused to watch a TV playing in the window of a used furniture store.

"What's up?" he asked a disheveled young man who was smirking at the tube with knowing eyes.

"It's the usual song and dance. They've pegged a couple of citizens as Libyans." Sylvia's picture came on the screen. "Now does she look Libyan to you?"

"Are you saying the government is wrong?" Joe squinted suspiciously at the young man who contemptuously spat on Joe's shoe.

"A reward is offered for the capture of Abbu Khadala, Winged Messenger of Death AKA Sylvia," the hysterical announcer continued.

"Reward?" Joe said his ears pricking up like a dog.

"And for the safe return of his beloved son, Randolph, Senator Eustace Blowfish is offering the sum of half a million dollars." Joe stared at Randolph's picture closely. Where had he seen him before? Wait! it suddenly came to him in a wave of excitement. The cafe, those tire tracks, that guy fixing the truck. That was the Senator's kid!?

"Hey, you, I'm hungry," Ollie announced giving Joe's shin a good kick.

"Tell someone who cares," Joe said trying to figure his next move.

"Come on, jerk, let's get something to eat."

"I'm broke."

"So you got blood, haven't you? We can sell a couple pints."

"Forget it, now scram." Joe walked quickly away.

"Please, Daddy please, don't leave us again," Ollie started howling wrapping himself around Joe's leg. "You can use all our food money for beer."

"Why the very idea," a woman said walking by shaking her head.

"You ought to be ashamed," growled an unemployed warehouseman.

"He's not even my kid," Joe said.

"Please, Daddy, don't say such things, I'm all alone since Mommy died," Ollie whined with a malicious little glitter in his eye.

"Man, some guys ought to have it cut off," said a hard looking young woman with bright red nails.

"I'm telling you, he's lying," Joe blustered as a crowd gathered.

"That's okay, Daddy," Ollie continued loudly through his feigned tears, "I know it's only the booze talking. Jesus loves you and so do I."

"A guy like you doesn't really deserve a kid like that, do you?" said an older woman taking Joe by the collar.

"Let's teach this bum a lesson," muttered the warehouseman balling a ham-sized fist.

"Please don't hurt my Daddy!" Ollie cried out heartrendingly.

"Believe me, young man, it's for his own good," added a motherly figure. "With these types you've got to be firm.

"Okay, okay, I'll get you something to eat," Joe yelled.

"You're sure?" asked the woman with bright red nails.

"I swear, just don't hurt me," Joe whimpered falling to his knees.

"Jeez, how pathetic," murmured someone else. The crowd dissipated. Joe looked up to Ollie's gloating face.

"I'm broke, you little SOB and I ain't selling any blood."

"Please, Daddy..." Ollie sang out.

"All right, all right," sobbed Joe.

"Get in there," Ollie ordered giving Joe a push through the blood bank's doors.

"I can't do it, kid," Joe sagged against a wall. "Go ahead, have them beat me up; I'm drained dry."

"Christ, what a pathetic sack of shit," Ollie said with a scornful grin. "All right, all right, I'll show you how it's done." He overturned a garbage can and ordered Joe to lift him up.

"Brothers and sisters," he began and launched into a religious spiel. In minutes, a crowd gathered. Within five minutes of twitching, foaming, and screaming at the mouth, Ollie was collecting money from the crowd.

"God bless you little Ollie," an old woman cackled patting him on the head.

"A boy with a talent for preaching like that ought to be signing up with Reverend Jimmy," said a foolish looking old man handing Ollie a thin dime.

"Thanks so much," Ollie called out sweetly as his audience drifted off.

"Hey, you got three bucks," Joe said impressed.

"Want to give it a try?" Ollie asked with a malicious little twinkle in his eye.

"Brothers and sisters!" Joe called out in a cracked voice. A shoe came flying out to hit him on the side of the head.

"Get a job!" someone screamed.

"Yeah, we're tired of supporting you Jesus-fakers!" Joe got down off the garbage beet red as Olllie laughed.

"So what's so funny?" he asked.

"You, ya dumb prick. Let's get some food."

"So here's the plan," Ollie began biting into a three dollar toasted cheese sandwich as Joe watched in some pain. "The old bat had a good idea. We're heading to the Reverend Jimmy School of Preaching. It's a cinch I get in."

"Look, kid, it's been fun, but I got a job to do. There's a Libyan running around out there and a half a million buck bounty on some Senator's son."

"And you think you're gonna catch 'em?" Ollie giggled. "Get real. Come on, I got to have an adult around just for looks. You can be my agent. That's ten percent of the take."

"Wow, ten percent of three bucks; that ought to keep me in cigarettes."

"We're talking ten percent of some real money," Ollie said looking dead serious. "The Reverend Jimmy makes about a billion bucks a year. Now I'm not saying I'm Reverend Jimmy, but a preacher can do mighty fine these days. So, we partners or do I have to pull that "Please don't leave me, Daddy," act again?"

"You rotten little shit," Joe snarled, but he was trapped. "Okay, we're partners."

"Great," smirked Ollie, "here's your first ten percent." He passed Joe a part of his sandwich--the burned part of the crust.

"I guess we're all in big trouble now," Syl admitted looking nervously out the rear view mirror.

"Why?" Peg asked.

"That Blowfish is awful mean and nasty. There's no telling what he'll try to do to us."

"To hell with him. I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat." She pulled the rig off the freeway and pulled up to Ralph's Burger Binge. "Coming?" she asked. Syl shook her head.

"I think Carl and I better stay here."

"Suit yourself," said Peg thinking Syl was acting a little paranoid.

Peg came back with a couple of sacks of food and an extremely worried expression on her face.

"What's wrong?" Syl wanted to know.

"You are now Abbu Khadala the avenging Libyan angel of death and Carl here is worth half a million dollars to that Blowfish."

"Oh man..," Syl groaned.

"Now, it's not that bad," Peg soothed trying to make the best out of it. "We'll get you a wig or something. They'll never find you."

"I want to be an Indian," Carl cheered.

Although the President was having a severe reaction to a combination of psychotropic drugs and too much gin, as a personal favor to Blowfish he allowed himself to be wheeled out before a joint session of Congress and all the networks to deliver a rambling, incoherent, yet firey diatribe promising death, disaster, and the wrath of the IMF to those damned godless liberal rag head Libyans.

"Senator, Senator!" an obliging member of the Free Press screamed hysterically, "can these terrorist attacks be linked directly to the growing unemployment problem in America?"

"Son," the Senator smiled his toothy grin, "I can assure you that almost everything that ails this great country of ours can be traced directly to some camel fucking Arab hiding out in his tent in the deserts of Libya, which, as we speak, will be shortly obliterated by attack waves of Sneak fighter planes."

"Senator, Senator!" called out a young reporter from one of the smaller networks who hadn't realized he was to submit his questions a week in advance and wait his turn, "according to some sources in the military, the Sneak airplane was somehow unmasked as a fraud by your son, the one who is now missing. Would you care to comment?"

"Uh, uh, uh," the Senator stammered.

"I would advise you to answer, sir," a Suit whispered in his ear. "We are on live TV."

"Go off the air, call it a technical breakdown."

"That's in violation of our network contract. We have to deliver fourteen seconds of prime sound byte."

"Senator!?" the reporter called out again.

"Well, yes, I would like, uh, to, uh, inform you all that some aspects of the Sneak program were indeed unmasked, uh, by my son, Randolph. Yes, and I firmly believe he was kidnapped because of this by godless, uh, terrorist Libyans because it is in their interest to sabotage our national defense."

"But our sources say that Randolph isn't actually your son."

"A goddamned filthy lie!" Blowfish screamed. The screen went blank.

"I was kind of hoping I wouldn't be doing this again," Syl said looking at her colorfully painted face in the mirror. She was wearing a bright orange wig.

"It'll keep you alive," Peg said trying to stifle a giggle. "And you," she said planting her baseball cap on Carl's head, "you hide that red hair."

"Indians don't wear baseball caps," he insisted. "I want a war bonnet. Can we stop for a hamburger?"

"I'm broke," Peg said.

"Let me check out the garbage cans."

"You've got five minutes."

The little girl standing by the dumpster looked lost and afraid.

"How," Carl grinned.

"Are you an Indian?" she asked.

"Sure am. Find anything good?"

"Well, my little brother found some stuff but now he can't get out. Could you give him a little help?

"You bet," Carl said crawling over the lip of the dumpster.

"Hi," a little boy smiled shyly from its depths. "Like some French fries?"

"You told them what?" Peg asked again as she stood there looking at two kids.

"I said we'd give them a ride to Dizzy Land."

"We're not going to Dizzy Land."

"Well, we might someday."

"Where are your parents, honey?" Peg asked the girl.

"Well, my Daddy, he went looking for work once and never came home," Cheryl said, "and my Mommy, I think she went crazy. She just sat in the kitchen corner and couldn't do anything. We left the house to get some food because we were really hungry but we couldn't find our way back home."

"Don't you have anyone to take care of you?"

"We get by," Cheryl wanly smiled.

"Would anyone like some French fries?" her brother asked.

Carl and the kids sat in the sleeper playing cards while Syl kept her eyes on the road. Now and then she took a glance at Peg who was slumped against the window sawing logs. Syl sure loved truck driving and life on the open road.

"Damn," cursed Ollie returning from the gate.

"What's the problem?" Joe asked trying to put together a smoke out of cigarette butts.

"Those youth scholarships were just a scam. I should have known better. You know what it costs to buy a Reverend Jimmy Church of the Creator franchise these days? More than a half a million bucks."

"Gee, that's tough," Joe said unsympathetically.

"Fuck you," Ollie countered scornfully.

"So what's the score, you gonna let me go look for Libyans?"

"Fuck that crap," the boy spat. "I've got an idea."

"Hey, who do you think you are cutting in line?" a Reverend Jimmy wannabe griped.

"Special FBI business, buddy, stand aside," Joe ordered flashing his ID.

"You can stand in line with everyone else," another man snapped landing Joe a kick in the knee.

"I'll have you arrested for hitting a federal agent."

"You and who's army?

"Me, schmuck," said Ollie who was at the perfect height for an uppercut to the man's gonads. Striking hard, he weaseled his way forward.

The icy looking blonde at the front desk took one look at Ollie.

"I'm sorry, little boy, all our positions at the Jimmy Junior academy have been filled."

"Come on, honey," Ollie said taking a long look down the blonde's cleavage, "can't you see I'm a midget?"

"Next please," she called out to the waiting applicants.

"I'm forty six, look my kid brother will swear to it. That's him back there getting the shit kicked out of him."

"The one in the battered pork pie hat squealing?"

"Yeah, that's him. What an immature punk, huh?"

"Well, then, I guess you can fill out the franchise form. You have your cashier's check for $499.999.00?

"Actually," Ollie said with a cocky smile, "I was hoping to talk to the Reverend about that."

"The Reverend is a very busy man," the icy blonde barely smiled. "Next!" But Ollie was not to be put off. He jumped to her desk.

"Half a million? Half a million?! Half a million bucks to do the work of the Lord?! Brothers and sisters," Ollie cried out to the crowded waiting room in his best childish voice. "Is this just? Is this the truth of the holy word when a child, er midget just plumb full of the holy spirit can't pay admission to the temple doors?"

"It's too damned high," grumbled one prospective franchisee. "We'll make less than a ten percent return."

"I name thee Babylon!!" Ollie said pointing to the blonde who called Security. "Forsooth, and forsake when the Red King travels the flaming black sands to the south where his pawns shall jump the Bishop whereupon he will forever be consigned wailing and weeping to the pits of eternal hell" Ollie paused a moment to twitch wildly and roll his eyes. "Unless of course, the evil Emperor of the West happens to wander by catching the Purple Queen boffing the Blue Knight of the Ascension. Then I tell you brothers and sisters, we got us a big schism in the Kingdom of Muskatelle!"

"Amen!!" the crowd roared in agreement. They left off kicking Joe.

"Handle a snake!"

"Speak some tongues!" cried another.

"Let's see some skin" cried one more. Ollie obliged them all by babbling, dropping his pants and waving his male organ which was pretty good sized for a boy that small. The blonde was sure checking it out.

"Wonka willis worba wontafact" Ollie cried out drooling to beat the band.

"That's lower medieval Mesopotamian," a bystander lied.

"Go Ollie go!" people shouted as Ollie went stiff as a board, thrashed, did some jumping jacks; then peed in the corner.

"Damn, that midget's got some talent," said an admirer in Joe's ear. "You his agent?"

"Uh, yeah," Joe said extracting a finger from his nose.

"Wooly wreaka wombat wonta" Ollie screamed as he executed a snappy tap dance on the blonde's desk. Caught up in the spirit, she sang the Star Spangled Banner. Everybody was hooting and hollering as she whipped off her tight sweater and started doing 'The Twist'. People were jumping, fighting, beating Bibles on their heads and Ollie took advantage of the pandemonium to check the desk drawers for petty cash. He didn't hear the hissing sound of a leaking stinking gas.

"Christ, are those your socks?" he asked Joe just before he passed out.

Joe woke strapped to a stainless steel table under a glaring halide light.

"He awake?" asked a bored familiar sounding voice.

"Yes, Director Wilkins." Joe tried to crane his neck. It was the Director of the FBI.

"Well, Frydegg, you really got yourself in the shit this time," the Director said. "Where the hell have you been? And why didn't you call in?"

"Director Wilkins, didn't you get my report? It must have been intercepted by the Libyans."

"Don't give me that crap, you've been using that line your whole career. I'm having you imprisoned for gross dereliction of duty during a National Emergency."

"But sir," Joe protested, "I'm this close to cracking the case."

"The case doesn't even exist, you Dumb Fuck. Not only that but you were caught participating in a riot at the Reverend Jimmy University of the Bleeding Open Sores of Christ."

"I was working undercover."

"I hope the hell so," thundered the Director. "I'd hate to think anyone had you pegged with the FBI wearing this getup. You been tapping people's phones from their garbage cans? You know what I think?" the Director asked peering so closely into Joe's face he could smell his breath.

"What, sir?" Joe asked trying not to cough.

"I think you and this Ollie character are running a scam. Only I know you're incapable of independent thought so I figure the kid was using you. Tell me when I'm wrong."

"But, sir, I, uh, think maybe-"

"Tell me when I'm wrong!" the Director screamed. Joe lay there petrified as various semi-disguised interrogation technicians huddled around the water cooler exchanging baseball scores and their favorite torture techniques.

"I was working on the case," Joe whined. "I've been tracking the suspects since the Prison incident in sub-sector 14. I obtained clear evidence that a tractor trailer was involved. I spotted the trailer at a truck stop. It was driven by white female accompanied by another female and a red-headed man."

"Red-headed man?!" the Director snarled grabbing Joe by the throat. "Who do you think you are playing games with?"

"I'm not playing games with you, sir. Red-headed man, I think he was called Carl and an average woman who is the spitting image of Abbu Ba Jababa. "

"What the fuck? Okay, shoot him up with some of that P-37," the Director ordered one of the in-techs idling by the water cooler. "I need to know if he's just dicking around with me. And if you are, Frydegg, this is the last you'll be seeing daylight because the next stop is Colorado and a super maximum security prison."

"Sir, it's the god's honest truth," Joe screamed as the In-techs approached.

"Spare me, asshole, I've read your file."

In another room not far from where Frydegg was being interrogated under the influence of P-37, the Reverend Jimmy had just concluded watching the taped television proceedings of Ollie's little incident in the recruiting room. Ollie smirked as the Reverend leaned back in a hand-tooled Italian leather chair—a gift from the Pope actually—and gestured that Ollie should help himself to a cigar.

"Not bad, huh?" said the boy leaning forward for a light. The Reverend smiled and snapped his fingers. One of the waiting Virgins leaned over deeply with a lighter as Ollie took a deep long look down her plunging gauzy gown.

"No, it wasn't bad at all," the Reverend admitted with a slight smile. "In fact, quite impressive."

"So I'm in?" Ollie asked but it was stated less as a question than a statement.

"Oh," said the Reverend examining a slightly irregular fingernail. He held it out to a waiting Virgin for adjustment, "I would say you're in."

"Hot damn," enthused the boy reaching out for a handful of smooth Virgin thigh. "When do I start and what's the split? Or do you think I need more training?" he asked suddenly sitting up straight and assuming a serious school boy expression.

"First of all, Ollie," smiled the Reverend assuming the expression of a stern but kindly schoolmaster, "we would like to know a little information about yourself; your family for instance?"

"I don't have a family, sir. Well, I did, but my grandfather took me away from my Mother because he said she was a sinful hussy but I was just a little baby. I don't even know who she is."

"And what about that FBI agent?" the Reverend said looking sharply at Ollie. The presence of a Fed in his sanctuary had alarmed the Reverend deeply but after several phone conversations at the highest levels he had been assured the agent was a rogue, or at the very least, extremely confused.

"So that guy is really with the FBI?" Ollie giggled. "Jesus, what a bunch of jerks."

"Oh, but they can be useful jerks on occasion," the Reverend smiled mysteriously as he reflected on past and profitable associations. "So, Ollie," he continued switching to a different tack, "you understand this is a business enterprise?"

"Oh, you bet," enthused Ollie rubbing his hands together.

"And as such, an essentially a mundane, mechanically financial exercise, you fleece the sheep, you bring in the wool."

"And then you send the wool to Switzerland for safekeeping," Ollie grinned.

"Correct. Now at one time, my father's time actually, the Reverend Jimmy Senior, we recruited men of some talent to run our various ministries, which at that time were not nearly so numerous as they are now. Formerly, the recruits were promised a salary, generous bonuses for increasing the size of our take and so on. Well, as you know, our business has grown vastly. And since our operations are well developed, in fact, formulaic, any hack, if you pardon the expression, can operate a Reverend Jimmy franchise--which brings us to the key word—franchise. We sell our franchises, to the highest bidder. That, in fact, is what you interrupted this afternoon with your, and I must admit, spectacular show."

"Sorry, Reverend," said the boy with mock-contrition, "I won't do it again."

"You can be quite certain," the Reverend smiled checking his watch. "So, we sell our franchises, but on the other hand, we are still interested in preachers of talent. We use them for our national and international enterprises. They help with development, product research, marketing; the sorts of things that give us our cutting edge."

"I suppose that's where you want to put me?" grinned the boy.

"Well you certainly couldn't buy a franchise, now could you?" chuckled the Reverend Jimmy.

"I can do a lot for you, sir, just give me a chance."

"I'm sure you could, potentially," the Reverend said checking his watch again. "Which brings me to the third, and possibly most important function of the Reverend Jimmy Institute of the Bleeding Open Sores of Our Sweet Savior Jesus. You see, young man, business is about competition. And competition, despite the prevailing propaganda, is not such a wonderful thing. Small businesses are ruined from competition by the hundreds every day. And a large business, well, competition can do nasty things to a profit margin. We have to guard against it in every way, which brings us of course, to you, young Ollie. You have talent, lot of talent; you could be quite valuable to our organization if you were disciplined, and remained in your place. Unfortunately, in our experience, and I represent at least several generations in the God business, types of your sort are inherently unstable, grasping, and greedy, and you represent risk. We abhor risk. All modern corporations do. What if you betrayed us and started your own operation and so on and so forth? Can you grasp where this is leading?

"You're going to have me snuffed, aren't you?" the boy said after one long last puff on his cigar.

"Such an intelligent and talented little boy," smiled the Reverend making a slight signal to the rear. There was the rustle of fake plastic armor as legionnaires crowded through the door.

"I don't suppose maybe me and Virgin could have a few minutes together before, uh, you know..," Ollie wondered. The Reverend smiled. He truly loved this part.

"No, I don't suppose you could."

Frydegg awoke from his interrogation lying in a large king-size bed. An agent scurried from the room. Joe sat up. He was clean, shaved, and wearing silk pyjamas monogrammed with the Agency's seal. The Director entered followed by a battery of aides.

"How you feeling, Joe?" he asked with a big shit eating grin on his face.

"Uh, pretty good, sir?" Joe said positive he was still hallucinating from the P-37.

"Like those silk PJ's?" the Director smiled.

"Uh, I guess."

"That's great. Get this boy a drink. Care for a cigarette?" he asked offering Joe a cigarette from his very own pack. "Hey, Frydegg, want to get laid? We got some damned fine looking female agents, or you can, you know, do the Edgar with one of my aides."

"I don't get it," Joe said backing away. Was this cigarette just another version of free cheese?

"Just smoke the son-of-a-bitching cigarette, will you Frydegg!" the Director screamed losing all patience. Joe scrambled under the bed

"Help!!" he screamed as agents pulled him out by the legs.

"Joe, we're not going to have you eliminated, goddammit, you made a positive ID."

"I did?" Joe asked in a small voice from under the bed.

"Damn right, you're the only agent of any federal or private agency to have done so. Don't you realize what this can mean at funds appropriations time?"

"So I fingered the Libyans?"

"Hell, no, you damned fool, you found us the Senator's son."

"Who?" Joe asked. An agent shoved a photograph of Carl standing with Sylvia and the Senator under the bed.

"That's my Libyans!" Joe shouted.

"Will you knock it off with that Libyan shit?"

"I'm telling you, sir, they were in the same truck as the one I pegged at the prison incident," Joe said crawling out from under the bed. The Director looked over to his aides with a puzzled expression.

"The Senator's son tied to a prison uprising?" he asked.

"We'll get a team to investigate a connection," saluted a senior aide.

"Waits, wait, not so fast," admonished the Director. "We don't want to get in the middle of some of the Senator's private little business. Doesn't he have strong interests in drug distribution?"

"Oh, you bet," said a researcher. "It's one of the bigger streams in the Senate's Anti-Drug caucus's cash flow picture which he heads."

"That must be it. Anyway, Frydegg, forget the Libyan thing, it's just another War of the Week. The important thing is Blowfish's son. This Randolph in the picture, has disappeared, and the Senator wants him back pronto and you are going to bring him in. Oh, and that woman too. Although it's completely okay, as I understand, to have her killed."

"Me?" Joe could barely speak as a good dozen of the nastiest, most ambitious, and corrupt bureaucrats in the District of Washington looked him over like a potential meal.

"You, Frydegg, you've got the entire weight of the Agency behind you. It's anything you want, and Frydegg, forget that little joke of a piss ass pension. You fix this, and you're in for a budget line yourself."

"Me?" squeaked Joe once more. Even those maniacal skinheads hadn't scared him this badly. He emitted an interesting smell.

"Get yourself dressed, son," said the Director retreating quickly out the door. "We'll start going over your plans." Everyone left the room on his heels except one overburdened looking secretary with a handkerchief over her nose.

"Will you be requiring my help to get dressed?" she asked. Joe squeaked. She gratefully took that for a 'no' and went out to buy him some clean socks.

Frydegg tried every window as soon as the door was shut. Unfortunately, agents waited on the balcony with automatic weapons, and a black helicopter hovered just overhead. Panicked, he shut the curtains. How could they give an important assignment to an incompetent fuck-up such as himself? This was gonna get him killed!

On the other hand, he realized, since they hadn't yet killed him over that Reverend Jimmy incident which he'd fully expected, what did he really have to lose? Taking deep breaths, Joe looked about the luxurious room. If nothing else, it was a great way to croak in style.

NINETEEN
"Like a quarter?" asked a pale, man wearing a baseball cap and a Reverend Jimmy Land T-shirt. Danny looked at him uncertainly. He didn't know if it was a good thing to be taking money from strangers in restrooms.

"Go on, take it, son," the man said with a weird giggle, "it's not like I'm going to ask you to perform some foul liberal sex deed like..." and he paused for a moment to lick his lips, "like sodomy or fellatio. Take the quarter. They've got a great new video game for slaughtering Libyans."

"Is it okay to buy some food?" Danny asked.

"Food?" smiled the man. "Why didn't you say so? Why I've got a whole lot of good food in the trunk of my car. Why I've got Hee-Hoos, and Snapdoodles, and Jupiter Bars, and all sorts of good yummy little things to eat. Wouldn't you like a little bit?"

"I guess so," said the little boy his eyes real big.

"Well, then, you just follow me out this door," he said in a kindly voice pointing to a rear exit.

"Maybe I better tell my Sis," said Danny.

"You just go on and have yourself some goodies. I'll tell her for you."

"Okay," said Danny in high spirits skipping out the back past a line of tired truckers waiting to pee. The pale man followed him intently.

"Looking for someone?" the pale man in the Reverend Jimmy Land t-shirt asked.

"Have you seen a little boy?" Cheryl asked.

"Why I think I saw a little boy playing out that door?" the man pointed towards the front parking lot where Danny had gone.

"Darn that Danny," Cheryl fumed heading out the door. "I told him to stay inside." The pale man followed her intently.

"Where's the kids?" Peg asked from the driver's side of the cab.

"I can't find them," Syl said pulling a baseball cap off her orange wig.

"We've got to go," Peg said with just the hint of relief. Maybe they'd decided driving with Peg just wasn't what they wanted to do.

"We can't just leave them here," Syl said.

"Honey, they're used to being on their own. Living in this truck all cramped together hasn't exactly been fun."

"They seemed happy."

"Well, I wasn't."

"I don't know," Syl said uncertainly as she got out.

"You've got five minutes."

"No kids?" Peg asked as Syl got in.

"They're gone, but this guy waiting in the men's room line saw them talking to a guy with a black car. He said the car went south."

"You think they're with him?"

"I suppose it's possible."

"Maybe he's going to Dizzy Land."

"I've got a real bad feeling," Syl said with sick, worried looking expression.

"All right, all right," Peg said shaking her head in near-exasperation. "Just so happens we're headed south ourselves. Keep your eyes peeled for a black car."

"There's a black car," Syl said after an hour and a half.

"Where?" Peg asked.

"Turning off the exit," Syl said waving to the left. Peg pulled over, and with the engine idling they watched the black car boiling dust as it headed down a dirt road. A sign read:

**"Little Lost Lamb Ranch, A Reverend Jimmy Corporation. Trespassers Shot on Sight."**

"That's an orphanage," Peg said. "They'll be all right there."

"Weren't you listening to a word I said?" Syl turned to her friend with a horrified expression. "Reverend Jimmy is not a nice man."

"But it's an orphanage," Peg said. "Look at their billboards. They've got swimming pools, schools, horseback riding. Why it's better than Dizzy Land."

"I don't know," Syl said shaking her head slowly back and forth. "I want to see it for myself."

"Syl, you can't be running around for everyone to get a look at you. You're wanted by the police for god's sake and who knows else? Besides that, I've got exactly one minute to sit here doing nothing before I'm late for my next stop."

"I've got to do it," Syl insisted. Peg sat there and thought a moment. She grabbed the clipboard and pointed to her schedule.

"Okay, this is what we're gonna do, I'll go see about the kids, you deliver the loads. You go there, there, and there. Looks like you'll be heading back this way in about three days. We'll meet you under that sign."

"Are you sure you want to go to Little Lost Lamb?" Syl asked.

"It'll do me good to get some fresh air."

"I want to go too," piped up Carl.

"Fine, we'll go check it out to make sure it's a good place for the kids; then just relax a bit."

"Thanks so much, Peg," Syl smiled gratefully. "I'm sure they're okay and everything; it's just they're little kids."

"Three days," Peg repeated and they both waved goodbye as Syl put the rig in gear and rumbled away.

The black car had passed them a good hour ago speeding back towards the highway. It was a long dry dusty walk.

"Looks like another prison," Peg remarked noticing armed guards at the fortified gate.

"You two are late!" barked one guard as they approached.

"For what?" Peg asked. "Lunch?"

"Don't smart mouth me," he said opening the gate. "You were ordered to be here at 1400 sharp. I want you in uniform in less than five minutes."

"Really?" replied Peg a trifle confused but she decided to play along.

"What's he talking about?" Carl wanted to know.

"I guess we're going to work," Peg whispered as she got in a jeep.

"This is the boss," Sammy said introducing them to a short, pudgy man who wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then spit on the floor.

"Call me TJ," he belched not rising. "Welcome to Little Lost Lamb."

"We're pleased to be here. Sorry we're late. Car broke down."

"Hey, no problem, it's not like we're going anywhere. I liked your resume. Let's see: Supervisory experience at MacDoogies; running an unlicensed day care, and not only are your ratings on prepubescent labor exploitation excellent, but you've both got your training certificates from the National Council for Child Labor."

"We aim to please," Peg grinned not having a clue what this stumpy little joker was talking about but ready to play along.

"And you," TJ said with real admiration in his voice turning to Carl. "Ex-marine, special training, private duty in Central America, and let me tell you, we were extremely impressed with your estimated body count. Keep up the good work."

"You bet," Carl shrugged not paying attention to anything really except the shiny new Hummer parked outside.

"So where's the kids?" Peg asked.

"Working, where do you think? I imagine you're eager to see them being as how you're our new juvenile exploitation specialist."

"Oh, you bet," Peg agreed not exactly sure what all those three dollar words really meant.

"Wow, nice swimming pool," Carl said admiring an Olympic sized pool just outside. "When do the kids get to swim?"

"Swim? Kids? That's a good one, Killer," TJ chuckled.

"And the school?" Peg wanted to know. TJ smirked.

"The only school we've got here is the School of Hard Knocks and Kicks."

"And what about horses?" Carl wanted to know because he wanted to practice being an Indian.

'There's one right over there." TJ pointed out a big guard on a horse who was riding down a small figure trying to run away.

"And where do you keep the newest children?" Peg asked curious to see Cheryl and Danny.

"We just got a couple in," said TJ. "One's in the box for being sassy and we got the other out in the fields already. We don't waste any time with these kids. Time is money, as you know. Your bonuses, by the way, are commensurate with just how well you encourage our labor units to produce."

"Labor units?" Peg repeated a little confused.

"Yeah, that's what we call them, LUs for short. Hey, there you go, that's most of them out there," TJ smiled as the black jeep drew closer to the irrigated fields.

"Hey, those are watermelons!" Carl cried out. "And look at all those kids." Several hundred small bodies worked in small gangs scattered throughout the thick vines. Each gang was watched closely by a guard mounted on a tall horse. Now and then a whip would flash in the sun as black jeeps mounted with machine guns relentlessly patrolled the edges of the field.

"I guess they're all getting some good exercise?" Peg asked hoping for the best.

"Oh, you bet," laughed TJ. "About thirteen hours a day. You really think you can get if up to fifteen like you promised in your letter?"

"Fifteen hours a day working out there?" Peg said horrified.

"Sixteen would be a hell of a lot better. Hey, we get sixteen and we can all look forward to a very nice Christmas bonus. You start tomorrow. Now let's get out of this damned hot sun."

"Sir?" interrupted a guard striding over.

"What's that?"

"We have two Unidentifieds at the front gate. They claim to be here to work."

"We already got our two new hires; probably some nosey journalists. Have them shot and bury both bodies in the desert." Saluting, the guard strode away.

"Shot?" Peg said stunned.

"Well, if I had the time, we'd torture them a bit, see what they're up to, but it's just too damned hot to mess with that shit. Now if you'll follow me..."

"This here's just one of our recreation rooms," TJ said with a wave of his hand as they entered a room that looked, well, like the front parlor of a cheap bordello. Several attractive, but dull-eyed young boys and girls wearing gauzy, vaguely Arabic slave costumes waited in a long line. "When the kids get here, they go through a sorting process. If they look like anything, we give them training as Troys and Tiffanyettes. We teach them manners, and how to make the customers very happy. You're welcome to 'get happy' with anyone of them whenever you want. Oh, and there's a bonus for virgin busting if you're interested, 'course I have to admit that's something I like to take care of—girls only mind you. I ain't some goddamned pervert. But what the hey, we're all here to do a job. You can stick your dingus into anything bodily orifice you want at Little Lost Lamb as long as it isn't one of mine." TJ let out a long laugh and plopped into an easy chair. Immediately a young boy and girl rushed over to pull off his boots, another brought a tray holding a freshly iced beer; as one more massaged the back of TJ's neck.

"You're not doing it right," he said casually reaching behind him to grab the child by the ear.

"I'm so sorry," the little girl whispered white with fear.

"Take her out back," TJ ordered casually. A guard marched her out. "I know it looks harsh, but you got to be tough with them. These kids are shipped all over the world, Kuwait, Bahrain, hell anywhere there's big money. They don't please the customer exactly that messes up our guarantee. Anyways, the lookers we train for that. The healthy ones, that is, the ones who look like they got at least a week's worth of work in them, we send them off to the fields. We try not to accept any that are sick, deformed, you know, more trouble than they're worth. They usually, you know, go to meet Jesus their first night."

"You kill them?" Peg could hardly keep the horror out of her voice.

"That's putting it kind of blunt, but yeah, I guess you could say we do. If that's something you'd like to get involved in, let me know. Hey, just what in the heck do you think you're doing?" TJ suddenly called out. Peg looked. Carl had helped himself to a plate of chips and was offering it around to the kids.

"Huh?" Carl asked.

"Giving food to LUs is strictly prohibited."

"They look hungry."

"Carl, will you sit down?" Peg said.

"What's the problem?" Carl asked.

"They, uh, have to eat special foods," Peg lied.

"What's more special than chips?" Carl asked.

"The point is," TJ explained, "you can't go getting them used to something nice for free. For instance, let's say a labor unit does a job exactly perfectly. They don't get a reward, hell no. For good work they get to survive. Now to make their nasty little lives a little bearable we do issue these little tablets on a regular basis." TJ took a pill bottle out of his pocket. "I don't know what the fuck they put in this shit, but one of these babies, two if they're bigger, and the little fuckers will do just about anything. Hell, I saw one of these LUs lose its hand in a thresher after taking one of these and it just stood there grinning."

"You drug them?" Peg said again barely able to restrain herself from grabbing TJ by the neck. But she couldn't. Not with all these guards standing around with automatic weapons. She'd find a way to fix his fucking wagon later.

"Oh, you bet, those pills make all the difference. Hey, kids want to play, act like kids. Working like adults, giving blow jobs, that sort of thing—it's not exactly natural kid behavior. We try to make it a little easier for them. After all, this is a Christian organization."

"So where do all these kids come from?" Peg wanted to know.

"LUs, dammit, use the lingo," snapped TJ as he drained a beer. Another instantly appeared. "How do we get them? We have a contract with the government, for one. Mother's poor, unmarried, not working. Obviously can't support the little brat. State grabs it, and somehow, well, they just kind of find their way to us. We also got our agents looking for runaways, strays, whoever. We don't see no adults watching after them, we figure they're fair game. We also got parents who are unemployed, no food. We tell them about how wonderful it is out here, write them a check, hey, they figure they're doing their little darlings a big favor."

"That's a lot of children," Peg said in a mournful voice.

"Oh, it seems like plenty, but we're always crying for more," TJ claimed. "I tell you, our stock price is going through the roof. We just can't get enough labor units to satisfy a lot of demand. Why I just signed a big contract with X Industries a couple months back. Also, we do have a pretty high attrition rate, and it's getting worse. Lot of these LUs we get in hardly last the month. I've to receive at least 2.5 new LUs a day just to maintain our current unit inventory. Right now I average 1.5. I tell you, it's causing us some worry. You see, some people are hiding kids, not reporting them to the government. The kids are out there, but it's getting harder and harder to get them for a reasonable price. Still, they're working on this at corporate, and I think they've found a solution. It's the War of the Week."

"War of the Week?" Peg repeated.

"You betcha, you know, the old policy was to pretty much slaughter everyone you get your hands on. But from now on, we're taking the kids. It's a great idea. We'll just grab all those kids from Libya, and presto, we got our LUs and haul them back here to run the farms."

"Oh..." Peg said straining to sound unemotional. She had to pinch herself really hard.

"Brilliant, huh?" TJ grinned. "I wish I'd thought of it. Somebody's getting a good bonus this year."

"I have to go to the bathroom," Peg suddenly announced.

"Take a LU," TJ offered. "They're specially trained to wipe."

"I'd just as soon have Carl," she said grabbing Carl by the arm.

"You want me to help you potty?" Carl asked.

"Oh, you bet."

"Any better?" Carl asked from the other side of the stall door as Peg finished throwing up.

"No," Peg admitted unable for the moment to control her tears.

"So when we getting out of here?" Carl asked. "This place is weird."

"Just as soon as..," Peg stopped. The truth was, she wasn't sure. Could they leave? Probably not, and at least not so easily and who knew how soon? Still, she had to find out about Danny and Cheryl. Then what? What about the rest of these kids? Tell the police? Tell the authorities? Tell who? She sagged back on the toilet seat feeling completely frustrated and helpless. What could they do?

"I'd like to take a tour of the grounds by myself," she said to TJ who was eating a huge bloody steak as hollow-eyed hungry looking LUs watched on. TJ chewed to the accompaniment of little stomachs growling.

"In the dark?" TJ asked wide-eyed. "Take yourself a couple guards."

"I'll be fine, just me and Carl."

"Issue them two automatic rifles and flak jackets," TJ ordered a nearby guard. "You can't be too careful. You never know what might happen. We've had a couple of guards disappear. We think the little bastards ate them."

"Cheryl?" Peg asked through the grate covering the dark hole that TJ had pointed out earlier.

"Peg?" echoed a small voice.

"Shh, don't say anything, just listen. Didn't your parent's ever tell you not to go with strangers?"

"We went with you, didn't we?" she responded in a small voice that had just the hint of defiance. "Besides, that icky man stuck a bag on my head and pushed me into a car trunk."

"Okay," Peg whispered, "but the main thing is we've got to get you and your brother out of here."

"Have you seen him?"

"Not yet. I think he's working with the watermelons. Anyway, you just do what you have to do and get by. We'll get you out of this mess somehow, and don't you ever let on you know me and Carl. You got that?"

"Yes."

"Be safe, then. We love you, and don't take any pills they try to give you. Just pretend."

"I won't. Thanks."

"Now what's wrong?" Carl asked as they walked away. Peg was crying again.

After thundering through the hills all night, Sylvia decided she needed a cup of coffee to stay awake. She pulled into an all night diner.

"You a trucker?" the waitress asked. Her name tag said 'Julie'.

"Yes," Syl replied with a smile of quiet pride.

"Could you give me a ride?" the waitress whispered leaning close.

"Where're you going?"

'Anywhere," she sighed taking a long look towards the kitchen. "I've been working here three weeks and that prick in the back hasn't paid me a nickel. And if I get any tips at all, and let me tell you there's not much of that going around, he grabs them from me. Look what he did to my arm." She was sporting a green bruise.

"That's pretty bad," Sylvia agreed. "I've got a bat in the cab. You want me to work him over?"

"Just give me a ride. They're all related around here somehow, the sheriff, the grocery store manager, this jerk. When you're ready to go, give me a nod. I'll dash out the backdoor."

"Hey," bellowed the owner from the kitchen where he was watching the cook, "stop bothering the customer and take her order."

"Yes, sir," Julie responded. "Will you do it?" she hissed.

"You bet," Sylvia agreed.

Finishing her coffee, Sylvia swung open the front door and stepped out. She pulled the rig around to the back. Julie suddenly came sprinting out the back door pursued by the owner, her blouse half torn off. She tripped, he grabbed her and started hitting. Syl jumped out with her bat.

"Let her go," Syl ordered in a quiet voice.

"This bitch works for me, I can do what I want," the man snarled.

"Let her go."

"She signed a contract."

"I never did no such thing," Julie gasped trying to crawl away.

"It's your word against mine," the owner laughed cruelly. "And you know we owners always win."

"You let her go right now," Sylvia ordered smacking the side of the building hard with the bat. He scrambled back big-eyed.

"Don't hurt me," he squealed.

"Seems to me you're the only one doing that around here," Syl said pulling Julie towards the truck.

"No hard feelings, I hope," the man waved with a shit-eating grin as Sylvia drove away.

"That's right, Tommy. Real average looking female," the owner breathed into the phone. "She kidnapped my waitress, took everything out of the till, and beat me up black and blue."

"Average?" said the Sheriff from his end. He was examining a police sketch of the infamous Abdul Abdala, aka 'Sylvia'. "I'll be right over." He hung up and dialed the FBI.

"FED-Fink," said a voice. "If you are calling from a touch tone phone, press one for hot tips to the FBI."

"Hot damn," grinned the Sheriff, "I hit the jackpot. Vegas, here I come."

Joe Frydegg was temporarily using the Director's office until his own new office suite was redecorated. Wearing an eight hundred dollar suit stitched together just last night by the Director's own tailor, he was having a sip of single malt scotch Irish Coffee when the phone rang.

"Special Agent Joe Frydegg...What, you're kidding? Spotted where? Hold on a minute." Joe's eyes darted back and forth as he tried to think. Hell, he'd been hoping to drag this thing out a couple of years. He knew the Agency. Once they caught Abdul Abdalla, Easy Street was gonna come screaming to a dead end for yours truly. What to do? What to do? Joe dialed the copter pool. "Yeah, this is Frydegg. Look, I'll be needing a chopper. One-man investigation. I'll be right down. Listen, keep this top secret. National Security is at stake. You got that?" He hung up, grabbed his brand new hand-tailored silk wool blend topcoat and tiptoed to the door.

"Great work, Frydegg," cried the Director bursting into the room followed by his aides. "We got the entire conversation on tape. So, what's this about a one-man investigation? Trying to hog all the glory for yourself? Johnson," he instructed a top aide, "call the Joint Chiefs."

"It's just a tip," Joe protested.

"Listen, Frydegg, she's been spotted. How's she gonna get away from the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines? Look, we've got to make this a big show. Low profile doesn't cut it during budget season in this town. Pack a bag. The copter's waiting on the roof."

"Shit," cursed Frydegg kicking a chair once the director and all his aides had left. The end was inevitable. He stuffed every valuable he could snatch into his bag.

Syl was nervous. For about a mile now she kept seeing black helicopters sweeping back and forth along the road.

"I wonder what they're up to?" Julie asked.

"Nothing good, I'm sure," said Syl as they passed a long convoy of lumbering diesels hauling the latest in tank technology.

"You don't usually see the military around here," Julie said. "Usually they're off fighting the War of the Week."

"Hmm" Syl said with a funny feeling in her stomach. "Check the map for me, will you? I'd like to find another route to Tucson."

"There isn't another, unless maybe you turn around." A black helicopter loomed up right beside them the copilot taking pictures.

"What the hell are they doing?" Julie asked.

"I think what they're doing is looking for someone," Syl said. "Julie, I've got to tell you something. I'm Abdul Adallah the Terrorist." Julie stared at her a moment.

"Hey, that's right AKA Sylvia. You're all over the tube. How could I be so dumb?"

"I'm really sorry," Syl apologized.

"Are you kidding? This is great. Could I have your autograph?"

"I'm going to pull over and let you run for it."

"Hey, no way, honey, you helped me when I needed it. I'm staying right here."

"But it's dangerous."

"Piss on 'em. Drive."

"You got the dirty little bitch yet?!" Blowfish screamed into the ear of a colonel leading a battalion of Green Berets. The Colonel leaned in closer bowing respectfully. It was hard to hear anything as soldiers had yanked dozens of people out of their private vehicles and giant military bulldozers were now piling the empty vehicles into an immense roadblock. And that wasn't even to mention all the racket from Sneaks screaming overhead, the thunderous rumbling of several squadrons of tanks, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff all blonde blue-eyed and male and the especially big bosomed female cheerleading squad.

"That's a positive, Bronco Charley," the Colonel told the Senator. "The mission is operative."

"Speak English, you goddamned fool!" Blowfish screamed. The Colonel looked puzzled.

"Your broadcast cannot be received.

"Get me a goddamned military translator," Blowfish howled climbing into the command trailer.

"Would the Senator like a drink?" he was asked by the attending Armed Services Tiffany dressed in a flattering olive drab teddy.

"Get me a single malt scotch," ordered the Senator pushing her aside. She saluted sharply marching off to do his bidding as he collapsed into a valuable antique chair used in the signing of the US Constitution. It was on loan from the Smithsonian and creaked ominously under the strain.

"Is that you, Senator?" rang the voice of Reverend Jimmy from the back. He was just checking the latest stock quotations on several of his holdings. "Hmm, I see our Reverend Jimmy Mutual Fund is doing quite nicely this morning. Senator," he asked, "have you had a chance to buy a few hundred shares?"

"Give me a break," Blowfish snarled, "I saw the Agency finance report. Your little pyramid scheme is ready to collapse like a house of cards."

"You have to have faith, Senator, you have to have faith," grinned the Reverend. "At least that's what we tell our buyers. Nevertheless, the fund has been calculated to have room for further growth at least until the middle of next week. A sizable purchase today, provided you sell tomorrow; you could see a sizeable return on your investment."

"Forget it, Reverend. As a politician, I prefer my no-risk access to the Federal Treasury."

"Well, of course," agreed the Reverend, "but some of us do have to work for a living."

"Where the hell's my drink!" Blowfish bellowed just as Tiffany came marching in.

"I'm so sorry, sir," she soothed. "We had to send out for your favorite brand. The Joint Chiefs polished off our very last case last night."

"War can be such hell," Senator snarled reluctantly taking a glass of his least favorite brand. He slugged it back. There was just no substituting these damned temporary quarters for one's personal mansion no matter how many millions it cost the taxpayers

"So, it won't be long now, will it?" the Reverend asked appearing from his room sporting a camouflaged preacher's outfit for the occasion and a brace of pearl-handled .45 caliber automatic pistols.

"Hell, I don't know," said the Senator feeling pessimistic. "Sometimes I don't ever think I'm gonna get a chance to choke the life out of that bitch."

"There, there," said the Reverend in a sincere attempt to offer solace, "why don't you have another drink?" As a practical man, the Reverend was fully aware that booze was often more effective than prayer.

"Don't mind if I do. Where the hell is that goddamned Tiffany? They're sure not making them like they used to."

"It's a sad statement on our times, I'm sure," agreed the Reverend with solemnity as the Joint Chiefs of Staff entered hats in hand.

'Good news, sir, we've made a positive ID on the target," the Admiral of the Sixteenth Fleet announced

"Then blast her out of the sky," the Senator slurred. It had not been his first drink of the day, not even his seventh or eighth.

"I thought the Senator wanted the target alive?" asked the Secretary General of the Army. If all the Senator had required was a simple murder, they could be presenting him with a body bag right now.

"I wouldn't advise that, Senator," advised the Reverend. "Your Randolph will be so much easier to manage with his alleged wife still alive."

"But she's so goddamned independent."

"Not to worry. There isn't a mind in existence that won't crack under our program. I've had it patented."

"It didn't work so great on my boy."

"There wasn't enough time. We also needed the proper leverage. Nothing quite so stimulates a personality change as real threats to living loved ones."

"All right, capture the goddamned bitch alive," the Senator glumly acceded and he screamed for another drink.

The Senator's order went from the Joint Chiefs and circulated down through the officer corps. A collective groan filled the air.

"What's going on?" the Director of the FBI wanted to know of his military liaison.

"The Senator wants the target taken breathing."

"Sounds like a job for us, right Frydegg?" the Director turned to Joe who was trying to choke down his third steak. He was stocking up for lean times.

"You bet," Frydegg gasped.

"Now, once we've got her ringed in, I want you to be the arresting agent, you got that?" the Director asked.

"You bet," Joe burped.

"Find your Escort, Agent Frydegg," the Director said looking proud. "This is a historic day for the Agency. Fuck up and you'll be serving the rest of your sentence in a maximum security Federal prison in Guantanamo Bay."

"Yes, sir!" Joe saluted smartly stuffing what steak he couldn't choke down into a suit pocket.

"Target is approaching, sirs!" their liaison announced. Joe ran for his Agency Escort.

After the black helicopter had hovered right over them snapping pictures, things were quiet for awhile. Sylvia was just beginning to feel relaxed when suddenly the freeway was swarming with nondescript Ford Escorts driving north and south each carrying four men in suits all wearing pork pie hats.

"Are those tanks?" Syl asked peering off into the right-of-way where great hulking metal beasts loomed row after row.

"Oh, shit," Julie blanched. "Maybe you'd better let me off after all."

It was too late. Someone had botched an order in the chain of command and tanks started firing at each other across the highway. Agents ran screaming from their Escorts as explosives seared the air.

"Jesus Christ!" Julie screamed as Sylvia dodged shells and flaming wrecks. There were hundreds of casualties all around her but she kept driving.

"She's getting away, you idiots!" Blowfish screamed watching the whole thing on the evening news.

"Never happen, sir," the Director of the FBI assured him. "Frydegg, make your arrest," he yelled into his cellular phone.

"Are you crazy!" Joe howled from under his Escort as missiles, bombs, and bullets howled overhead.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," the Director said with blood in his voice. "You know what happens if you fail."

"Shit," Joe crawling out from underneath the Escort as ordinance whistled overhead.

Syl was too frightened to even think. This was worse than a traffic jam on the George Washington Bridge. Everywhere was death and destruction. Still, she continued to make good time. Suddenly the tractor hit something and started grinding to a halt. Syl looked out the window.

"Drive!" Julie shouted, "drive!"

"We're stuck on some damned Escort," Syl.

"Well, I guess it doesn't matter anyhow," admitted Julie looking ahead. They were now facing the giant roadblock of dozens of bulldozed cars.

"I guess not," she said wondering if there any way she could back up. Her rear view mirror revealed death and destruction, but there might be a way. Unfortunately Agent Joe Frydegg had jumped on the running board waving a gun that hadn't been fired in thirty years.

"You're under arrest!" he screeched.

"The hell we are," said Julie grabbing Syl's baseball bat. She threw open the door knocking Joe off.

"Forget it," Syl said jumping out the other side. "Julie, it's me they're after."

"I'm not leaving," Julie claimed stubbornly as she advanced on Joe.

"Look, lady," Frydegg said still gasping from the physical exertion of jumping onto the rig and just plain fright, "don't be stupid. We can work out a deal. You want part of my steak?"

"She's my friend," said Julie taking a nasty swing.

"Ow!" Joe yelped as she landed him a crack on the arm. "Stop or I'll shoot!"

"You get on out of here," Julie warned raising the bat again.

"I can't. They'll do unspeakable things to me. I've got to make this arrest."

"What the hell are they doing out there?" Blowfish wanted to know from the safety of the armored command headquarters as he watched the whole thing on TV.

"Damned if we know," said one of the lesser Joint Chiefs.

"They're holding up things. I want to get back to Washington. Kill the female with the bat."

"Yes, sir," said one of the Joint Chiefs stepping out the door with an automatic rifle. He fired. Julie dropped dead as Joe hit the ground.

"Shit," said Joe. "See what you've done now?

"I didn't do anything," Sylvia said breathing hard. "I never hurt anyone. You people are all crazy."

"Tell it to the Marines."

Cheryl was tumbled into the room dressed like a little Tiffany. The first thing she saw was an enormous table loaded down with all sorts of good things to eat: oranges, bananas, apples, fried chicken, hot dogs, three brands of soda pop and four flavors of ice cream. Her mouth watered like Niagara Falls she was so starved.

TJ lay sprawled out on a king size waterbed just behind the food. He was wearing a silk nightgown that exposed a flabby pale gut which mercifully covered his shriveled naked genitals and a pair of skinny, hairless legs.

"You hungry?" he grinned. She nodded. Even the sight of him wasn't enough to spoil her appetite. "How you feeling? All nice, and happy, and ready to do anything I want?" he asked assuming she'd taken her pills.

"I guess," Cheryl said in a small voice her eyes drawn to the food. She wasn't feeling anything of the sort, really. Peg had said don't eat the pills and she hadn't.

"Well, the only way you're gonna get to any of that delicious looking chow is to suck my hot dog first," TJ drawled as he yanked up his gut to expose himself.

Cheryl didn't remember much of what happened after that as she found herself devouring oranges, fried chicken, and chocolate cake like a starved wolf, but TJ wasn't saying much of anything just kind of lying there, looking bloody, and surprised with broken glass surrounding his battered head and a fork plunged in his heart. There was a small knock on the door.

"What?" Cheryl called out a little annoyed at being interrupted.

"Is it time to change the bloody sheets?" asked a small voice.

"If you want," Cheryl said barely glancing up from her food. A little girl came in.

"I could come back later," she said shuffling in under a pile of fresh linen. She took a long slow look at the food. Then she saw TJ.

"Is he asleep?" she whispered.

"No," Cheryl said matter-of-fact as she chewed on a piece of chicken, "I think I killed him."

"You mean he died like a kid?" the little girl gasped in awe.

"Yeah, it wasn't so hard. You want to try it?" The little girl nodded slowly. Stepping over to the wall, she pushed a button that she knew would summon a guard. While they waited, she ate a piece of chicken. They didn't wait long.

"What in god's name is going on over there?" Peg asked peeking through the window over at TJ's private quarters. Flames were leaping out the windows and children were streaming in and out carrying armloads of food.

"All right, a fire!" Carl cried out happily running from the room.

Feeling more cautious, Peg got dressed first. She heard screaming and looked out the window just in time to see a pack of howling children tackle a fleeing guard. "Die like a kid!" they yelled swarming over him kicking, stabbing, and hitting. In moments, there was nothing left but a dead lump. Suddenly, there was pounding on Peg's door.

"Oh, shit," she whispered to herself. "They're gonna get me too." She ran for the window. The door crashed in, and bloody-handed children carrying automatic weapons and kitchen utensils streamed in.

"Die like a kid!" they screamed.

"Danny!?" Peg cried out hoping she recognized a face.

"Wait!" called a little voice. The kids paused. Danny approached. "Peg, what are you doing here? Aren't you a nice person?"

"I came to get you, me and Carl," Peg stammered in fear. "We had to pretend. You're not going to hurt us, are you?"

"Heck no," said Danny. "We know who the Meanies are."

"Die like a kid," the children screamed as they streamed out of the room. Carl popped up wearing a feather duster and some kind of war paint.

"Ain't this great?" he grinned. Feeling faint, Peg could only grab Danny and hug him as hard as she could.

"Are you okay?"

"I think. Could I go kill some guards?"

"First, let's find your sister."

Peg passed the dead bodies of guards lying huddled in little piles. The children took no prisoners. Even now groups of them were chasing lone survivors across the dessert. They found Cheryl passing out Ho-Whos and bags of chips to a mob of half-starved kids. Universally acknowledged as the first child to make a guard die like a kid she commanded a certain authority even among those who were older.

"I think it's a bad idea to burn everything," she was announcing to a circle of older children standing around her. "Where we gonna live?"

"Yeah, but burning is so much fun," cried a bloody handed boy who smelt of gasoline.

"Let's find another Little Lost Lamb ranch and kill all the guards there."

"Then those kids can have a place to live too, wouldn't that be great!"

"And once we're done with that, we'll kill all the guards we can find."

"We'll kill all the guards everywhere!" exclaimed a little blond girl with a soot-smudged face. "And we'll kill all those people who tell them what to do just like TJ." They all cheered.

"Hi!" Cheryl cried out seeing Peg and Danny. They embraced. "I didn't take any pills just like you told me to. And I told everybody else."

"You did perfect."

"Isn't this fun?" Cheryl smiled. Peg looked around at all the bloodstained, grinning faces. After what they'd been through, who was she to rain on their parade?

"Oh, you bet," Peg agreed. Kids let out a big cheer.

Peg and a lot of the kids were sitting in the guard's cafeteria eating cereal and eskimo pies late that night when an emergency news bulletin interrupted Letterman on the big screen TV.

"Three thousand Libyan terrorists killed in sneaky surprise attack on US soil," the pale, shaken announcer said close to tears. "US casualties five thous--, I mean one man injured in a traffic accident, two others suffered a hangnail The Director of the FBI and the Joint Chiefs announce the capture of Abu Abdalla AKA Sylvia. More headlines after an important word from our sponsors." Peg pushed aside her cereal; her great mood gone with the wind.

"You're not staying?" Cheryl asked with disappointment once Peg had told her the news.

"Why the heck not?" demanded Carl who was having a heck of a good time. By now, most of the kids were wearing feathers and war paint thanks to him.

"Sylvia needs us."

"Oh, she don't need us. All she's doing is driving," Carl said.

"She's not driving, Carl. That Senator's grabbed her again. We've got to go get her out."

"You telling me that rotten old Blowfish is still bothering us?" Carl said. He let out an angry whoop.

"We can help," said Cheryl.

"You bet," said another one of the older girls. "You helped us, didn't you?"

"You pretty much helped yourselves," Peg smiled. "Besides, I think Syl's somewhere in Washington. I thought you all wanted to go to Dizzy Land?"

"Dizzy Land can wait. Meanies are gonna die like kids in Washington DC!" the children sang out in unison as Carl led them in a war dance.

They had put Sylvia in one of the federal government's total isolation prison units deep in the bowels of the FBI. The cell was brightly lit twenty four hours a day with no windows, furniture, or even a door and although it was designed to shatter a prisoner's sanity, Sylvia had seen plenty worse on the streets. She was catching up on her zzz's.

"Get up," ordered a flat, monotone voice. Sylvia cracked open one eye. One wall of the cell had disappeared. An unpleasant sight greeted her.

"You sure is a hard little thing to stomp the life out of," the Senator sneered from his overstuffed hand tooled alligator leather chair. Surrounded by his Suits, the FBI Director stood by waiting, and behind the Director stood Frydegg looking like he wished he were somewhere else. "Where's Randolph?" the Senator asked.

"Your Randolph is dead," Sylvia said.

"That's a goddamned filthy lie!" the Senator frothed pointing a long bony finger at her. "You're gonna regret that devil talk."

"I suppose I wouldn't be the first," she shrugged as a team of government torture specialists advanced. Selected from all branches of the military, Treasury, CIA, and Human Services and Welfare, these men and women had trained in every War of the Week and knew their business extremely well.

Within an hour, several planeloads of what was left of the 82nd Airborne descended on Little Lost Lamb Ranch. They were shocked to find the staff had all been slaughtered and was completely deserted of LUs.

"What?" a completely shocked Reverend Jimmy stared when he was told the news. He felt faint. What if this got leaked to Wall Street? His entire empire could collapse before he had a chance to cash out.

"You've got to do something?" he begged the Senator.

"All I want is my son," Blowfish said in a quiet voice as he swallowed another two fingers of single malt scotch.

"Your son? I'm talking serious money here. And not just me, there's plenty of your more important campaign contributors."

"Shut up. Why do you think we have government bail-out programs? You ain't got to worry one thing. I want my Randolph. What does she know about this?" Blowfish demanded turning to a waiting Suit.

"Our specialists claim they have extracted every possible bit of information from her brain along with several of her teeth."

"She's got to know more," the Senator hissed. "Tell them to remove organs if they have to; I want answers."

'The Senator is not happy, Frydegg," said the Director looking into space, "and when the Senator is not happy, I'm not happy because I feel our budget is at risk."

"Yes, sir," Joe said. He'd been expecting a little talk like this.

"So I need a goat. You're old, close to retirement; I think you'll do."

"So somehow him not getting his kid is all my fault?" Joe asked.

"At this point, yes."

"Does that mean no pension?" Joe squeaked.

"At the least, Frydegg, the very least," the Director smiled faintly pressing together his thin bony fingers.

Frydegg left the office trembling. Taking a long drink from a bottle of pilfered single malt scotch to calm his nerves, he entered the stairs. Behind him he heard footsteps. Two men wearing trench coats were trying to pretend not to be paying attention to him. Frydegg ran.

As luck would have it, there was one tractor and two trailers parked at Little Lost Lamb waiting for a load of watermelons. Since no one wanted to be left out of the fun, Peg had hooked up both trailers in tandem to her new rig, packed both trailers with kids, and plenty of food and they were well on their way long before the 82nd Airborne ever got there.

"I sure hope this is a good idea," she said more or less to herself more than once. There wasn't getting any sense out of Carl. She could hear him and the kids in the back practicing war cries as Carl beat out the time with his prosthetic leg. Fearing for Sylvia, she drove twenty four hours a day straight.

"So," asked the Major as he finished reading one of the pre-submitted questions from the press, "one of you actually wants to see these dead Libyans?" He looked up with a hostile glance.

"That would be us, sir," several representatives of the major newspapers and networks admitted collectively raising their trembling hands.

"So," the Major roared, "you don't trust the US Dept. of Marketing and Patriotic Propaganda?"

"No, it isn't that, sir," said the gentlemen for ABX. "Its just that we thought, well, you know, a pile of bodies, might be a good way to introduce, well, you know, the story of our magnificent victory and well, you know, disperse those ugly rumors about how, well, that there were no Libyans, only a gigantic foul up that resulted in the deaths of several thousand US military personnel and an as yet undetermined number of civilians."

"All a complete and utter lie, gentlemen! Satisfied?"

"Of course," the members of the Free Press hastened to mumble their agreement as they bowed heads and covered their privates with both hands.

"Then," said the Major smiling, "if there are no other questions, I'd like to take this opportunity to outline our next War of the Week." There was a polite smattering of taped applause while outside, relatives and wives of the disappeared military personnel rioted which could hardly be heard through the soundproofed walls.

Peg pulled into the Paymore Grocery store just off the Washington DC beltway. Her two trailer loads of hungry kids had long since devoured all the food taken from Little Lost Lamb and Carl was now leading chants for Sweety Pop and Korny Kurls. She got out of the cab.

"You want what?" the Manager laughed in her face after she had carefully explained the situation and asked if there was any old unsold food he could give away.

"You heard me," Peg said with the fatigue of driving twenty four-hours-straight in her voice. "This is your last chance."

"I'm calling security," the pudgy faced man snarled. Peg went out and opened the trailer doors.

"Go get some food."

She was practically trampled in the rush as children streamed across the parking lot.

"Die like a kid" they howled spotting guards.

Inside, hungry children ravaged the shelves as stunned customers looked on. The Manager, having failed to rally the clerks in his defense, locked himself in the meat locker.

"You got five minutes!" Peg called out nervous the police might come. Soon kids were streaming out of the store lugging armloads of edibles followed by Carl stomping on his wooden leg. Peg climbed into her cab munching a beer sausage. Frydegg was in the passenger seat cringing away.

"Buddy, you got two seconds to get out of my cab. You see what those kids did to those guards?"

"I know who you are," Frydegg said pale, desperate, and reeking of cheap booze. He'd been hiding from the Agency's assassins for two days and looked even worse than usual.

"Looks like all you know is the inside of a bottle," Peg said.

"I know where they're keeping Abdul Abdalla AKA Sylvia," Joe croaked. "You want to talk?"

Ghostly footsteps echoed down the cold marble hallways. A large door opened almost soundlessly and closed with a dull thud. Voices murmured; the sharp click of a heavy lock.

"Where is the President?" inquired an arrogant extremely self-satisfied voice with just a trace of German-Jewish accent. No one answered. Papers were shuffled around a great wooden table. Pales faces flickered like candles in the uneven light. Suddenly, there was a hush. Curtains parted. The President was wheeled in slumped over in his chair. A nurse picked up one limp arm and gave him an injection. In minutes he was talking very quickly and quite incoherently.

"So what's the problem?" the President finally asked quite rapidly with a ghastly grin. He had just delivered an especially long and graphic description of his latest hemorrhoid operation.

"Mr. President," drawled Doctor Kisofdeth,the esteemed adviser to president after president, his jowly impassively cold face as usual, contemptuous and bored, "we have a small crisis on our hands."

The President sat there. It was difficult for him to gather his thoughts, he had so few of them. His main value was as a front, really, and his uncanny ability to project care and compassion for people over the media even as the policies he advocated furthered the ruin of their country and the destruction of countless lives.

"That reminds me of a little story," he said suddenly. Dr. Kisofdeth grimaced. He hated these despicable little stories. However, he was paid an enormously lucrative retainer by a consortium of the world's biggest multinationals to provide direction to the government and babbling did increase his billable hours.

"Perhaps, sir, you might tell us your story over cocktails later," the good Doctor suggested. "Now if I could draw your attention to the graph." One wall lit up at his command showing a bewildering variety of zigzagging lines. The President only pretended to glance at them as he doodled on a napkin. "As you can see, Gentlemen," Kissofdeth continued, "stock prices, the incomes of those who matter, the value of rents, royalties, and other monopolies continue to climb. Things have never looked better for those we work for, the nation's elite job creators." The good Doctor paused for a moment to swallow a small pill with a brief sip of extremely expensive mineral water drawn from a well deep in the Himalayas. Either the pill or the water, or both were supposed to possess special therapeutic and spiritual effects for all that mattered because deep down, he really didn't believe in anything. He paused to look out over the pale flickering faces noting expressions of dread and fear. Despite the extremely lucrative news that all of them could see in the rapidly rising blue lines, it was the red lines that made them squirm. Unemployment for the masses—those of little value to society—had skyrocketed. Levels of homelessness, debt, and infant mortality showed dizzying increases. Included were national factory closings, the collapse of bridges, buildings, trains and subway systems. Everywhere there were signs of increased dissatisfaction: riots, prison uprisings, even mutinies among armed services personnel less than happy at the prospect of new Wars of the Week. Even the children were offering resistance. There was news of distant uprisings in scattered orphanages about the country and one recent bulletin noted that here, in the very capital of Capitals, a horde of children had just looted a local Paymore and slaughtered the guards.

'That reminds me of a little story," the President said into a room almost completely devoid of noise. There was one nervous sneeze.

"Perhaps later," said the Doctor feeling slightly uneasy himself. Someone was hammering on the thick door. The pale flickering faces, be-ribboned, be-jewled, be-medaled, gasped collectively and shriveled in their chairs. There was some talking amid the guards and drunken slurs.

"Sorry, I'm late, gentlemen," Blowfish came marching in followed by a Suit pushing a gurney upon which lay the unconscious Sylvia.

"Ah," smiled the good Doctor, "the good Senator Eustace Blowfish. How could we ever manage without you?"

"Howdy, howdy," the Senator smiled crowding his bulk into an empty throne reserved especially for the head of both the Finance Committee and Anti-Drug Caucus. The Suit wheeled the gurney to just behind the Senator and stood at ease.

"And who is our special guest?" the Doctor inquired lasciviously. There was something about helpless women strapped to gurneys that had unusual effects on his usually limp libido.

"My son's wife. I've just about tortured the bitch to death and I ain't letting her out of my sight until I get what's mine."

"Hmm, so I've heard," inquired the good Doctor. "Who did your work? Was it Malcolm Chevy? I understand he's quite good."

"Oh, you bet. Nothing but the best, I always say, but I still haven't got my Randolph, and let me tell you, she's gonna suffer a lot more," he said with a cruel leer.

'Hear, hear," agreed the good Doctor, "we mustn't ever allow the lower classes to think they can disobey our orders--which leads me to our problem. As you gentlemen can see, the majority of the population is in need of a lesson. Despite the fact that we have lowered their living standards and pummeled them mercilessly with inflation, recession, and depression, some of them still seem to think they deserve more than say, the average citizen of your typical third world country. And why, I ask you? Simply because they're Americans." He chuckled. "Unfortunately, not the right kind, but they don't seem to understand that yet no matter how much we've tried to hammer it into their thick heads. Now listen carefully, we have several proposals to consider: the first--reprisals. The mob always respects state violence. I say we end temporarily our policy of exporting the War of the Week. From this point on, I suggest we pick a particularly unruly town, city, or even state and wage our War of the Week there. In fact, this was brought up at an earlier meeting of the Security Council by one of our members who has since then, unfortunately, been institutionalized. At first I dismissed it as the ravings of a lunatic, but on reflection, I realized it's quite an excellent idea. Therefore, I am taking full credit for what will now be called: "The Kisofdeth Grand Plan." Think, gentlemen, how it would end certain logistical problems while no doubt completely quashing any thoughts at all of public rebellion. By the way, this proposal was unanimously endorsed by the Federated Business Council of America and the National Council of the Churches of the Bleeding Open Sores of Christ. Other proposals that I have been asked to relay to you from the Council include the withdrawal of all citizenship rights to those who do not meet certain income and property requirements, say at least a household income of at least eighty five thousand a year. It is also high time we end this ridiculous policy of awarding one vote to each citizen. Hence, it is proposed that votes be awarded to according to a means test, that is, the more means, the more votes. Are there any questions?" he paused to regard the surrounding pale flickering faces.

"I have a suggestion," Blowfish said.

"Yes, Senator?"

"I say what's good for the goose is good for the gander. Now for decades now we been letting the likes of Malcolm Chevy loose on populations outside the country. Now I been thinking, if we take a picture of this bitch before Chevy and his bunch got a hold of her, and after, work up a big marketing campaign, all that. Maybe with a slogan of "Do what you're told or you're next," why that might be damned effective, don't you think?"

"You know, Senator," the good Doctor responded with a grateful smile, "that's quite a creative idea. Perhaps we could launch the campaign with the help of your daughter in law. She could be our poster victim, so to speak." He tittered, but members of the Committee coughed nervously.

"Sure, use the bitch all you want. Maybe it'll help smoke out my son." A phone rang. Voices murmured. A Marine's officer marched to the Doctor's side and whispered in his ear and suddenly Kisofdeth's face deflated like a punctured balloon.

"I don't understand," he muttered to no one in particular head twitching like a dead leaf in the wind.

"That reminds me of a story," the President held forth and as he proceeded to ramble in little ragged incoherencies punctuated by the occasional odd giggle, Blowfish had his seat pushed closer to the Doctor's.

"What's up?" he hissed.

"I'm not sure. It hasn't been accounted for in my calculations. For the love of God!!" Kisofdeth suddenly screamed. "Don't let them get their little hands on me!!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" the Senator said his mouth gaping wide in surprise.

"The children," the Doctor wailed loud enough to drown out the President. "The children are coming and they are Death!"

The conference room erupted into sudden panic. Deep in the recesses of the collective conscious of the ruling class had always lurked the fear that finally, eventually, as they had in previous rebellions, uprisings, and revolutions, the masses would rise to pay back them back. There were shouts, screams, and shots were fired as the most powerful members of the government chose suicide over the retribution of the Mob. Blowfish staggered from the room wheeling Sylvia just as a canister of poison gas filled the room. "Guards!" he howled, but the soldiers had deserted their posts. Somewhere he could hear the sounds of yelling children.

"Die like a kid!" they howled.

He ran for the elevators gasping and pushing the gurney as hard as he could. The doors erupted with Carl and Peg followed by a horde of screaming kids. Blowfish staggered for the stairway shoving open the door. They were right behind him.

"Get back!" he snarled. "I'll shove her off, I will, I swear."'

"Stand back," Peg ordered holding onto Carl who was brandishing a kitchen knife.

"I'm gonna take your scalp," Carl growled.

"That's no way to talk to your Daddy, Randolph. Now you get those folks to go away and take what's coming to them, or this wife of yours is falling down ten flights of stairs"

"You give her back," Carl demanded.

"Randolph, don't you see," Blowfish tried to plead, "I'm your Daddy. We got to hotfoot it out of here. Now I got money stashed away outside the country. Fancy houses, cars, think of the whores we can buy. Forget these dumb hicks, Son. You come on with me."

"You're no Daddy of mine you rotten old rat," Carl said his eyes full of such hate Blowfish knew nothing would change that. He shoved the gurney just as Syl, in a last burst of energy grabbed his wrist. Gurney, Syl and Blowfish tumbled down a flight of stairs in a flurry of limbs and clanging steel.

"Syl, you okay?" Carl asked. Sylvia lay on top of Blowfish who had broken his neck; his bulk had cushioned her fall.

"Well, I'm not exactly in one piece any more, but I think I'll live," she smiled, and they kissed while the kids cheered.

"Honey?" Carl asked.

"Yes, Carl?"

"You think we could go home?"

"Yes, Carl," she smiled feeling a little weak. "I think it's finally time."

"Live like a Kid!!" happy little helots hollered.

**The End**

By Mike Liston, Beijing, China and Anchorage,  
Alaska All Rights Reserved  
December 12, 1996 (revised August 25, 2009, July 23, 2010, March 16, 2012)

US Copyright office

Registered to Guy M. Liston (Mike Liston)

Case #1-282170463

Case Date: 11/27/2009
