Part 6
The meeting was going well, highlighted as it was by a coarse alcoholic who attacked his disease with a razor-sharp wit and the kind of defiant, militaristic confidence of a man who has seen the worst life has to offer. The speaker, Tom, was so engaging Joseph even gave up shooting Hector dirty looks.
Tom was just getting started on telling how his wife, finally fed up with him drinking their rent, moved out to her brother’s place in Tennessee. And Tom, “like the certified jackass I am,” decided he didn’t want her taking his car. He chained the car to a nearby tree with a forbidding lock. She got his bolt cutters. By the time she got the chain off, he had literally removed a wheel of the car and was sitting on it on the curb, nursing his flask. The police who showed up got a good laugh out of that, and even said he should work in the pits at NASCAR for getting a wheel off that fast. Then they arrested him.
The rolling chuckles of the audience finally died down and everyone listened as Tom started in on what he affectionately called the “drunk farm,” beginning yet another two-year stint in prison. Hector heard the woman in front of him sigh and wondered how the hell she could be bored with Tom. Tom spoke with an unfaltering, sardonic half-grin that dripped regret and determination. He didn’t talk over their heads. He was the hardnosed, compassionate alcoholic they all wanted as a sponsor because he would rather strangle them himself than see them take another drink. Then Hector realized it wasn’t the woman sighing.
He put a hand to his chest and felt the teeth move under his sweatshirt. At least it wasn’t clicking. Yet.
As subtly as possible, he crouched out of the line of tables and into the nearby aisle, making his way to the rear exit. Thankfully, Mike was too wrapped up in Tom’s patented method of brewing prison hooch to notice his hasty escape.
In spite of oncoming autumn, it had not cooled any outside. Hector peered around the traditionally German-Irish neighborhood and started down a sidestreet. He jogged his way through a line of freestanding garages and into an alley, eyes adjusting quickly to the velvet blue darkness that shifted starkly into a whole world of clear grays. The land of night came into focus, color sacrificed to this preternatural awareness. He strode quickly, scanning the fenced backyards, no longer troubled by the thoughts of housewives and children mourning “runaway” cats. Foreign chemicals lacing his blood, he no longer thought about the lost pet posters that used to draw his guilty eyes with their condemning pictures and pitiful reward offers. Click click click.
There was a rustle of metal and a thin plastic bag. Hector froze and instinctively crouched. After moments of silence, there was another rustle of plastic. Hector crept to the corner of a garage, moonlight tracing the gritty surface of an aluminum trash can. Just when he had got his hopes up for a raccoon, a pit bull stalked into view, pausing only once to look over Hector with disdain, then return to its scrounging.
Hector rolled his eyes, sneered, and relaxed. Too big. He took a moment to rifle through the nearby torn trash bag, opening a few cigarette packs to find them depressingly empty. Guido’s hunger alone kept him from squatting in the shadows and looking over this unknown family’s bills and junk mail and receipts, all the discarded evidence of their own hunger.
He stood, kicked a bit of gravel at the dog, and made to turn until a long, barbed tongue split through his sweatshirt and dug expertly into the pit bull’s neck. The dog yelped and dropped to its side, then scrambled for its feet. Hector, eyes wide and gaping, hands open and shaking at his sides, looked down at the textured, snakelike tube of musculature that stretched between his chest and the snarling dog that was up again and snapping viciously at the long tongue that had by now popped barbs into its neck. The ropy length swayed in the humid air, waving frantically in the darkness to dodge the gnashing, powerful jaws that sought, time and again, to sever it. Frustrated, pained, and scared for its life, the dog turned and ran, its pads awkwardly pressing against the gravel in escape until the tongue tightened and jerked backward. The barbs in its neck held fast, mercilessly tearing flesh as the dog was whipped off its feet and cruelly deposited on its back. Hector lurched forward a foot, still gawking like a voyeur, hands hovering uncertainly near the mouth on his chest and the tongue that reeled its dinner closer. In a last-ditch act of violence that would have shamed samurai, the dog got to its feet again and made straight for Hector.
Hector crouched and fell backward, catching the pit bull by its powerful shoulders even as murderous teeth snapped inches from his own neck. He pushed backward, knees pressing against the dog’s low belly to get those flashing teeth away until a sharp pain in his chest made him stop. The tongue was drawn tight, winching the dog’s bleeding neck closer to his chest. Horror flashed across Hector’s eyes before he threw his head and face back and away from the arterial spray and the distinct sound of a wet, soggy crunch as Guido’s teeth bit through his sweatshirt and into the dog’s neck. The dog sounded like a fish trying to yelp. Another wet crunch, and the dog was still and silent.
Hector lay on his back, suddenly feeling happy and tired, a stupid, druggy smile creeping onto his face as hot, thick liquid slid over his chest and pooled into the alley around him. There was a continual, pumping slurp sound. Hector sprawled out in the alley, feeling the cotton lining his skull and the trickling bliss moving down his spine like a cool rainfall in this warm night.
Tom was just getting started on telling how his wife, finally fed up with him drinking their rent, moved out to her brother’s place in Tennessee. And Tom, “like the certified jackass I am,” decided he didn’t want her taking his car. He chained the car to a nearby tree with a forbidding lock. She got his bolt cutters. By the time she got the chain off, he had literally removed a wheel of the car and was sitting on it on the curb, nursing his flask. The police who showed up got a good laugh out of that, and even said he should work in the pits at NASCAR for getting a wheel off that fast. Then they arrested him.
The rolling chuckles of the audience finally died down and everyone listened as Tom started in on what he affectionately called the “drunk farm,” beginning yet another two-year stint in prison. Hector heard the woman in front of him sigh and wondered how the hell she could be bored with Tom. Tom spoke with an unfaltering, sardonic half-grin that dripped regret and determination. He didn’t talk over their heads. He was the hardnosed, compassionate alcoholic they all wanted as a sponsor because he would rather strangle them himself than see them take another drink. Then Hector realized it wasn’t the woman sighing.
He put a hand to his chest and felt the teeth move under his sweatshirt. At least it wasn’t clicking. Yet.
As subtly as possible, he crouched out of the line of tables and into the nearby aisle, making his way to the rear exit. Thankfully, Mike was too wrapped up in Tom’s patented method of brewing prison hooch to notice his hasty escape.
In spite of oncoming autumn, it had not cooled any outside. Hector peered around the traditionally German-Irish neighborhood and started down a sidestreet. He jogged his way through a line of freestanding garages and into an alley, eyes adjusting quickly to the velvet blue darkness that shifted starkly into a whole world of clear grays. The land of night came into focus, color sacrificed to this preternatural awareness. He strode quickly, scanning the fenced backyards, no longer troubled by the thoughts of housewives and children mourning “runaway” cats. Foreign chemicals lacing his blood, he no longer thought about the lost pet posters that used to draw his guilty eyes with their condemning pictures and pitiful reward offers. Click click click.
There was a rustle of metal and a thin plastic bag. Hector froze and instinctively crouched. After moments of silence, there was another rustle of plastic. Hector crept to the corner of a garage, moonlight tracing the gritty surface of an aluminum trash can. Just when he had got his hopes up for a raccoon, a pit bull stalked into view, pausing only once to look over Hector with disdain, then return to its scrounging.
Hector rolled his eyes, sneered, and relaxed. Too big. He took a moment to rifle through the nearby torn trash bag, opening a few cigarette packs to find them depressingly empty. Guido’s hunger alone kept him from squatting in the shadows and looking over this unknown family’s bills and junk mail and receipts, all the discarded evidence of their own hunger.
He stood, kicked a bit of gravel at the dog, and made to turn until a long, barbed tongue split through his sweatshirt and dug expertly into the pit bull’s neck. The dog yelped and dropped to its side, then scrambled for its feet. Hector, eyes wide and gaping, hands open and shaking at his sides, looked down at the textured, snakelike tube of musculature that stretched between his chest and the snarling dog that was up again and snapping viciously at the long tongue that had by now popped barbs into its neck. The ropy length swayed in the humid air, waving frantically in the darkness to dodge the gnashing, powerful jaws that sought, time and again, to sever it. Frustrated, pained, and scared for its life, the dog turned and ran, its pads awkwardly pressing against the gravel in escape until the tongue tightened and jerked backward. The barbs in its neck held fast, mercilessly tearing flesh as the dog was whipped off its feet and cruelly deposited on its back. Hector lurched forward a foot, still gawking like a voyeur, hands hovering uncertainly near the mouth on his chest and the tongue that reeled its dinner closer. In a last-ditch act of violence that would have shamed samurai, the dog got to its feet again and made straight for Hector.
Hector crouched and fell backward, catching the pit bull by its powerful shoulders even as murderous teeth snapped inches from his own neck. He pushed backward, knees pressing against the dog’s low belly to get those flashing teeth away until a sharp pain in his chest made him stop. The tongue was drawn tight, winching the dog’s bleeding neck closer to his chest. Horror flashed across Hector’s eyes before he threw his head and face back and away from the arterial spray and the distinct sound of a wet, soggy crunch as Guido’s teeth bit through his sweatshirt and into the dog’s neck. The dog sounded like a fish trying to yelp. Another wet crunch, and the dog was still and silent.
Hector lay on his back, suddenly feeling happy and tired, a stupid, druggy smile creeping onto his face as hot, thick liquid slid over his chest and pooled into the alley around him. There was a continual, pumping slurp sound. Hector sprawled out in the alley, feeling the cotton lining his skull and the trickling bliss moving down his spine like a cool rainfall in this warm night.
posted by Ghostwind at 4/10/2006 11:29:00 AM
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