“Any port in a storm?”
“Something like that,” she said, putting her head on his chest.
They took it easy for a few days after that. No hurry. Just pushing along slow down the pavement. In Sauk City, which was mostly empty except for some Army units patrolling the streets that paid them no mind, and the locals who were armed behind their fenced-in yards, Dirty Mary decided she wanted some candles of all things. She had a real love of candles, and didn’t like getting it on unless candles were burning. That’s the way she was. So Slaughter pulled his hog over before a big gift shop and in they went.
He stood around paging through dusty magazines while Dirty Mary looted the candle section and that’s when a form came shambling out of the back, a big man in a dirty khaki uniform and a badge. “I’m the law around here and I caught you,” he said. “I caught you and you’re mine. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.”
The cop had been dead a couple weeks at least, but was still a big boy that was boiling hot with rot. His stiff white crew cut was patchy, as was the scalp below, like birds had been picking at it. His face was gray, mottled, and scabrous, skinless from his nose on down, loops of black slime foaming from his mouth, staining the front of his uniform shirt.
It was nothing Slaughter hadn’t expected. What bothered him, though, was that the cop still had his service pistol on his hip.
“We can come to agreement,” said the cop, his voice scratchy like something from a wind-up phonograph. “Suck my cock and we call it an even trade.”
For one second Slaughter thought John Law was talking to him but that’s when he realized that the cop did not even seem aware of his presence. He was addressing Dirty Mary. He had eyes for nothing or no one else. Maybe in life he’d once been sucked-off by some runaway or desperate woman and that was just replaying in the rotting spools of his brain.
“You suck it, woman,” he said, a long white worm coming out of his ear and dropping to the floor. “How’s about it? Winner, winner, chicken dinner.”
Dirty Mary could have panicked and made it all worse, but she kept her head and did not once look over at Slaughter who the cop had not sighted by that point.
“Okay,” she said.
The cop unzipped his pants and took out a cancerous-looking trouser snake that was bloated black-red like a blood sausage. It was singularly the most vile-looking thing that Slaughter had ever seen. And what made it worse was that it was moving from the larval action within.
Dirty Mary, cool as December ice, went down on her knees. She was so absolutely believable that for one crazy—and disturbing—moment, Slaughter actually thought she was really going to take that hose of rotten pork in her mouth, but it was just a play.
“Pull your pants down,” she said, wrinkling her nose against the stink that was so close to her now.
The cop did, and that was real sharp thinking on her part because his gunbelt went down with his pants. He stood there, his penis engorged, flies flitting about the bulbous head.
That’s when Slaughter stepped around the magazine rack with the .357 Combat Mag in his hand. The cop saw it. Saw him. And a dopey sort of look came over what remained of his face. His teeth gnashed, his penis shrank, and black foam came out of his mouth. It was honestly hard to say at that moment whether he was angry or embarrassed…again, he was probably just playing out some past memory. Maybe he’d gotten caught in the act with his pants down way back when, too.
Regardless, he was certainly caught this time.
“Winner, winner, chicken dinner?” he asked.
Slaughter shot him in the forehead and the slug pierced his brain, tumbled around in there and exited the side of his head, taking his ear with it. He stumbled around and then went over like a nine pin, his skull shattered and loose from the slug so that it blew apart when it struck the floor.
Dirty Mary collected her candles and they got out of there.
She was really something. Slaughter had a lot of respect for the balls the woman had. And other than breaking a bottle over his head and trying to stab him once or twice, she was good to him in those rare moments when they weren’t fighting. Like the old song said, she was dirty-sweet, oh yeah.
Chapter Four
The dead kid had an Army-issue rucksack so Slaughter went through it. It mostly contained food, a few well- thumbed fuck books, and a carton of cigarettes that were probably stale as hell. Taking his time, Slaughter helped himself to a can of Franco-American Spaghetti with Meatballs, a couple Hershey bars, then he smoked a couple of the kid’s cigarettes, checked the load on the M-1 and almost laughed when he realized the kid only had one bullet. Barney Fife, here.
He was thinking about checking out. Just climbing back up the hill—with the kid’s food, of course—and jumping on his scoot, eating some road. It wasn’t like he was in love with Dirty Mary, and that crazy bitch would sell him down the road first chance she could if a better offer came along. That’s the sort of mama she was. But if he did that it would mean he would miss out on the entertainment when the Ratbags tried to bust a piece off her and he figured that was going to be real good.
So he stayed.
Maybe he stayed for Dirty Mary; maybe for the Ratbags in case they needed medical attention. Mostly he stayed for himself. He’d been looking for action for a long time and he wasn’t about to duck out on it now that he had it. Besides, he wasn’t much on running unless things got real itchy so he was going to stay and break a few heads, relieve some of that tension building in his chest.
Taking the kid’s ruck with him, he went around to the living room window so he could voyeur the fun in there. No internet or DVDs anymore, a man had to get his porn wherever he could. He almost laughed at that. That was good. That was funny.
He peered into the window.
Okay, now it was getting good.
Dirty Mary was playing games and those stupid fuckers didn’t even realize that they’d been baited and pulled into the spider’s web. By the time she started sucking the blood out of them it would be too late. But for the time being she was content on sucking something else. One of the Ratbags, maybe even that boy Snake, was standing there and Dirty Mary was on her knees in front of him, bobbing on him, showing him how good she was with her mouth. The other four were gathered around and a couple of them already had their flies unzipped in preparation for the fun to come. They were real gents because they’d even let Mary wipe the blood from her face. Real Christian gentlemen they were.
Mary was putting on a good show and the Ratbag she was blowing was off in la-la land, never knowing it could be that good. The others had forgotten their guns and that’s exactly what Mary wanted. She wasn’t stupid. Sex for her wasn’t like it was for most women. With Dirty Mary it was like a handshake; you sealed every deal with it. She could do more tricks with a good length of dick than a rodeo cowboy with a horsehair lariat.
And she’d be sealing their deals, all right.
Slaughter lit a cigarette, wishing he had some popcorn.
The Ratbags weren’t even aware of it.
Except maybe the short, Hispanic looking guy in the back. Maybe Mary wasn’t his kind of thing. Maybe he liked to drop his worm in a different sort of pond.
Just about the time the guy Mary was working on was about to loosen his load, his eyes all glazed over, and his three compatriots were sweating with anticipation…Mary went in for the kill. She grabbed the guy’s sack and squeezed it to pulp just as she sank her teeth in his business like a shark chomping down on some good red meat.
