White Shirt hopped off his stool to stalk around her. Anger made his face appear corrugated. “Go ahead! Tell me! Spit it out! I WANT TO KNOW!”
The redhead shrugged. “Your dick’s not big enough.”
White Shirt’s low moan issued out like that of a just-gelded walrus. He stumbled away crosseyed, and staggered out of the bar.
The keep and fat blonde ignored the outburst. The redhead looked at the writer, smiled, and said, “Hey, he wanted the truth, so I gave it to him.”
“But if you’re a seeker,” posed the keep, “What’cha seekin’?”
“Ah, the universal question.” The writer raised a finger, as if to preamble a scintillating wisdom. “And the answer is this. The true seeker never knows what he’s seeking until he finds it.”
The fat blonde’s wet eating noises ceased; she’d finished the entire pizza. “Here’s something for you to write about,” she said. She leaned over and kissed the writer on the mouth.
Her lips tasted of grease and cheese. But actually the kiss inspired him. Her mouth opened and closed over his, tongue probing unabashed. The writer found himself growing aroused.
The fat blonde’s kiss grew ravenous. Then—
She threw up directly into the writer’s mouth.
It had come in a single, heaving gust. He tasted everything: warm beer, lumps of half digested sausage and pizza dough, and bile — lots of bile. Utter disgust bulged his eyes and seized his joints. Then came a second, and larger, gust, which she projected right into his lap.
The writer fell off his stool.
“There,” said the blonde. “Write about that.”
“Ooooo-eee!” remarked the keep. “That one was a doozy, huh?”
The writer, flat on his back and in shock, could only groan, staring up. The heavy, hot blanket of vomit lay thick from chin to crotch; it oozed down his legs slow as lava when he got up. He spat immediately, of course, and incessantly, and out flew several chunks of sausage and strings of flecked slime. Almost blind, he staggered for the door.
“Come again… seeker,” laughed the keep.
“Hope you liked the pizza,” bid the fat blonde.
The writer grabbed his suitcase and stumbled out. The dusk in the sky had bled to full dark, and it was hot outside. He reeked, drenched. He was mortified.
Then he heard the voice again, not in his ears, in his head.
What was it?
He stood stock-still in the empty street, sopped in vomit.
The power of truth? He’d come here seeking truth and all he’d gotten was puked on. And he was hearing voices, too.
He strayed up the main drag, aimless. Shops were closed, houses were dark. The bus station was closed too, and in his wandering he found not one motel.
Then he saw the church.
It sat back quaintly behind some trees, its clean white walls lambent in the night. What relieved him was that it looked
He entered and crossed the nave. The pews were empty. Ahead, past the chancel, a shadow lingered, mumbling low words like an incantation.
It was a priest, reading rites before an open coffin.
“Excuse me, father,” the writer said. “I need to know—”
The priest turned, chubby in black raiments. He was glaring. In the coffin lay the corpse of an old woman.
“What!”
“I’m new in town. Are there any motels?”
“Motels? Here?” the priest snapped. “Of course not!”
The writer’s eyes flicked to the open coffin. “Do you by chance know when the next bus arrives?”
“How dare you come in here now!” the priest outraged. He pointed abruptly to the coffin. “Can’t you see my mother’s died?”
“Sorry, father,” the writer groped but thought,
The sweat was a herald, like a trumpet—
— for the voice:
SEEKER. SEEK!
A block down, the sign glowed over the transom: POLICE
His footsteps echoed round his head like a halo as he trotted up. Surely the police would know about the next bus. He pushed through the door, was about to speak, but froze.
A big cop with chopburns glared at him. “What’cha want, buddy? I’m busy.”
“I…” the writer attempted. The cop was busy, all right. He stood behind a long-haired kid who’d been handcuffed to a chair. A tourniquet had been fashioned about the kid’s neck via a cord and nightstick.
“Okay, punk,” warned the cop. “No more bullshit. Where’s them drugs?”
The kid, of course, couldn’t have answered if he’d wanted to. He was being choked. The mouth moved in panic within the strained, ballooning face.
“Still not talkin’, huh?” The cop gave the tourniquet another twist.
“What the hell are you doing?” shouted the writer.
“Police business. This kid’s got drugger written all over him. Sells the shit to kindergarten kids probably. All that crack and PCP, you now? We gotta rough ’em up a little; it’s the only way to get anything out of ’em.”
“Talk, punk. Where’s your stash? Who’s your bagman?”
“How can he talk!” the writer shouted the logical question. “You’ve got a tourniquet around his fucking neck!”
“Scram, buddy. This is a police matter.” The cop paused and looked down. “Aw, shit, there he went.” The kid twitched a few times, then fell limp, swollen-faced in death.
The cop was unwinding the tourniquet, taking off the cuffs. “Just a drugger, no loss. No point in wastin’ it, either.” The cop gave the writer a comradely look. “Girl pussy, boy pussy, s’all pink on the inside, right, buddy? Help me get his pants off so’s we can poke him ’fore he’s cold.”
A sign on the wall read
