Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

Her voice became harsher, he could hear her teeth grinding. Her breath was faster. Her fingers touched his face. They ran through his hair and fondled his neck.

He began to moan. He asked her to let go. There was no answer. She breathed faster still. He tried to pull away. He felt the floor of his room with his feet. He tried hard to pull his head from under the blanket. But her grasp was very strong.

She began to kiss his lips. Her mouth was cold, her eyes wide open. He stared into them while her breath mingled with his.

Then she threw back her head and she was laughing and lightning was bursting through the window. Rain was thundering on the roof and the mice shrieked and the horse stamped and made the barn shake. Her fingers clenched on his neck. He pulled with all his might and gritted his teeth and wrenched from her grasp. There was a sudden pain, and he rolled across the floor.

When the landlady came in two days later to clean, he was in the same position. His arms were sprawled in the dried puddle of blood and his body was taut and cold. His head was not to be found.

12 – DANCE OF THE DEAD

I wanna RIDE!

with my Rota-Mota honey

by my SIDE!

As we whiz along the highway

“We will HUG and SNUGGLE and we’ll have a little STRUGGLE!”

Struggle (strug’l)

Act of promiscuous loveplay; usage evolved during W.W.III.

Double beams spread buttery lamplight on the highway. Rotor-Motors Convertible, Model C, 1987, rushed after it. Light spurted ahead, yellow glowing. The car pursued with a twelve-cylindered snarling pursuit. Night blotted in behind, jet and still. The car sped on. ST. LOUIS-10.

“I wanna FLY!” they sang, “with the Rota-Mota apple of my EYE!” they sang. “It’s the only way of living…”

The quartet singing

Len, 23.

Bud, 24.

Barbara, 20.

Peggy, 18.

Len with Barbara, Bud with Peggy.

Bud at the wheel, snapping around tilted curves, roaring up black-shouldered hills, shooting the car across silent flatlands. At the top of the three lungs (the fourth gentler), competing with wind that buffeted their heads, that whipped their hair to lashing threads-singing:

“You can have your walkin’ under MOONLIGHT BEAMS!
At a hundred miles an hour let me DREAM my DREAMS!”

Needle quivering at 130, two 5-m.p.h. notches from gauge’s end. A sudden dip! Their young frames jolted and the thrown-up laughter of three was wind-swept into night. Around a curve, darting up and down a hill, flashing across a leveled plain-an ebony bullet skimming earth.

“In my ROTORY, MOTORY, FLOATERY, drivin’ machi-i-i-i-ine!”

YOU’LL BE A FLOATER IN YOUR ROTOR-MOTOR.

In the back seat

“Have a jab, Bab.”

“Thanks, I had one after supper” (pushing away needle fixed to eye-dropper).

In the front seat

“You meana tell me this is the first time you ever been t’ Saint Loo!”

“But I just started school in September.”

“Hey, you’re a frosh!”

Back seat joining front seat

“Hey, frosh, have a mussle-tussle.”

(Needle passed forward, eye bulb quivering amber juice.)

“Live it, girl!”

Mussle-Tussle (mus’l-tus’l)

Slang for the result of injecting a drug into a muscle; usage evolved during W.W.III.

Peggy’s lips failed at smiling. Her fingers twitched.

“No, thanks, I’m not…”

“Come on, frosh!” Len leaning hard over the seat, white-browed under black blowing hair. Pushing the needle at her face. “Live it, girl! Grab a li’l mussle-tussle!”

“I’d rather not,” said Peggy. “If you don’t—”

“What’s ’at, frosh?” yelled Len and pressed his leg against the pressing leg of Barbara.

Peggy shook her head and golden hair flew across her cheeks and eyes. Underneath her yellow dress, underneath her white brassiиre, underneath her young breast-a heart throbbed heavily. Watch your step, darling, that’s all we ask. Remember, you’re all we have in the world now. Mother words drumming at her; the needle making her draw back into the seat.

“Come on, frosh!”

The car groaned its shifting weight around a curve and centrifugal force pressed Peggy into Bud’s lean hip. His hand dropped down and fingered at her leg. Underneath her yellow dress, underneath her sheer stocking-flesh crawled. Lips failed again; the smile was a twitch of red.

“Frosh, live it up!”

“Lay off, Len, jab your own dates.”