Like Rayford.
The young gang-bangers shouted back insults at Gideon in Spanish and broken English and made some obscene gestures, but other than that, they seemed content to write him off as just a crazy old junkie. Junior was okay with that. After all, he was beginning to have the same impression. Walking up to Guenther’s pod, he tapped out the correct “password” knock on the metal door.
The door swung open, and there stood Freddy. He was a runty, little man, probably weighing a buck fifty soaking wet. His hair was long, stringy and oily. A pair of out-of-control mutton chop sideburns framed his narrow face. His nose was long and crooked from having been broken twice back in his younger skinhead days. He had dark, beady eyes that always seemed to be squinting, like someone sensitive to bright light.
“Junior Tuttle!” he exclaimed, a big lopsided smile revealing tobacco-stained teeth. His lips were thin, almost non-existent, and a half-smoked cigarette dangled from them, seemingly defying gravity. He wore a surplus Space Guard battle tunic, left unbuttoned with the sleeves cut out. His scrawny, bare arms, hairless chest, and stomach were covered in a menagerie of tattoos, everything from swastikas and iron crosses to ample-breasted naked women with devil horns and tails. “Well, butter my balls and call me slippery! I deed’nt figger you to be out this early!”
“Just needin’ to get this here business attended to, Freddy,” Junior replied. He turned to Gideon. “This here’s my Paw.”
“Pleased to meet ya there, Mister Tuttle!” Freddy switched the beer can he was holding to his left hand and extended his right. “Junior here … he’s told me a lot about ya.”
“S’at a fact?” Gideon made no effort to shake the man’s hand. Even though he was comfortably numb, the less he moved, the better the Lunarol felt. The doctors had applied a Medi-Seal to the wound to help it heal faster and keep down the risk of infection before his replacement ear could be fitted later that week. But he was an old man and old men don’t heal like the young bucks do … and his tolerance for pain wasn’t what it used to be as he’d become more and more chemically dependent.
“Yessir.” Freddy felt awkward with his hand extended. As inconspicuously as possible, he let it fall to his side. “He thinks quite highly of ya, he does.”
“Hmmph!” the old man grunted, unimpressed. “Well, are ya gonna invite us in or ya gonna make us do business out here in this God-forsaken ghetto you live in? It’s chilly out here and I ain’t in the best of shape if’n you cain’t already tell by the fact half my face is gone.
“Why sure! C’mon in!” Freddy’s hospitable smile faded just briefly, his eyes meeting Junior’s as he followed his father up the wobbly, prefabricated faux redwood steps. Junior shook his head and rolled his eyes, as if to say: I know … he’s an asshole! Just deal with it, for my sake.
They made their way into the kitchen/dining area. In the living room, Freddy’s girlfriend Wanda was sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette, his dog Rommel curled up beside her. A half-empty can of Ignition cola and a raisin crème pie sat on the coffee table in front of her. Brunch. The Mercury Marrz show was on, and as usual, she was utterly engrossed in it. This particular episode seemed to have something to do with lesbian strippers impregnated by aliens. She hardly paid the men scant attention as they entered the living room. Rommel, on the other hand, watched the newcomers warily. On the wall behind her, a Nazi flag hung. The only other decorative items were the two pictures hanging on the far wall; one of Hitler and one of Orange Donny.
Junior wondered what it was about dictators and bad hair.
Looking at Wanda, a person could still see evidence of the beauty of her youth, before drugs, gravity and age had slowly eroded her looks. Her beautiful mane of thick, bushy, brown hair had once been the envy of high school classmates. It still had the potential to look beautiful, yet she rarely washed it anymore, and it mostly hung greasy and unkempt. The ‘beam had thinned it out significantly over the years, and flaky scalp was now clearly visible in spots. She’d once had big, brown bedroom eyes. Now they were watery and red, surrounded by what looked like a raccoon’s mask. Black circles around them and a constant runny nose were tell-tale signs of a moonbeam junkie. Over the years, she’d developed the very unattractive habit of wiping her nose with the sleeve of her garment. Even now, her bathrobe looked as if slugs used both arms as a freeway.
She propped both feet up on the coffee table in front of her, legs apart. The bathrobe was untied and open, revealing that she was wearing only panties and a bra. It wasn’t that she was trying to look sexy or put on a show. Fifteen years ago, she would’ve undoubtedly caught the attention of the Tuttles as they entered. But her unhealthy diet of alcohol, drugs and junk food had taken its toll. She was in dire need of gaining a good twenty pounds. She looked like a stick figure, and she could’ve cared less. She was way past caring about most things in life. As long as she had her moonbeam can, her daytime TV and her smokes … well, she was pretty much satisfied with her station in life.
Freddy, on the other hand, took exception to her lack of modesty. “Damn, Baby! We got company! Go put some clothes on.”
“Shee-it! It’s just Junior and his old man. Junior’s harmless. You know that.” She glanced up with a touch of cynical amusement
