The Chosen

^{CHAPTER FIVE}

“Hey, Jor! Split-tail at twelve o’clock!”

The Blazer slowed. It was one of those big four-runners, souped up, with Binno Mags, Bell Tech springs, and tires that looked about a yard high. All the rednecks drove them; it was status. Jorrie Slade’s eyes thinned at his friend’s announcement—or, to be more accurate, his eye thinned, since the left one was glass. He’d lost it one night when he and Mike-Man were rucking it up fierce with some Crick City fellas out behind Duffy’s Pool Hall. Didn’t matter all that much to Jorrie, though; the right eye worked just fine, and that backwoods peter-licker who’d poked out the left one had wound up losing a lot more than an eye. Try his ears, his lips, and his balls. Jorrie was good with a knife.

Mike-Man, Jorrie’s best rucking pal, swigged on his can of Jax. “I say, ya see that, Jor?”

“I see it, all right, Mike-Man, my man. Looks like we’se gonna have our dogs in some decent poon after all. Shee-it.”

The Blazer’s high headlights and floods glared forward. A van sat stalled on the opposite shoulder, and stooping over the opened hood was one buxom full-tilt brick-shithouse blonde the likes of which neither Jorrie nor Mike-Man had ever laid eyes on—or eye, in Jorrie’s particular case. Beautiful long blond hair swirled in the wind. Her tight, broad rump jutted as she bent over, diddling with wires.

“Now I say, a pair of gentlemanly types such as us could not never ignore such a woman in distress,” Jorrie pointed out to his friend. “I mean, on a wicked night like this? Goodness, the poor thang could catch her death of cold, now couldn’t she?”

“That she sure could,” Mike-Man replied in full agreement, “and it just wouldn’t be Christian-like for two strong young fellas such as ourselfs to allow sumpthin’ like that to happen.”

Jorrie and Mike-Man exchanged laughter. You could call these two boys unipolar sociopaths, or you could call them pure-ass crazy motherfuckers—it didn’t much matter which. And as for this here foxy blonde stranded at the shoulder? No harm, really—not that they could see anyway. Hell, they was just two red-blooded American fellas out for a thrill. It wasn’t like such things never happened out in these parts, what with them creekers up in the hills and all, and them damn white trash buggers north of the ridge. And it wasn’t like they was fixing to kill her. They was just gonna poke her up a tad, give those fine womanly parts a working over, that’s all. Probably be doing her a favor, they figured.

Mike-Man crossed the line and stopped on the shoulder. The Blazer rumbled, lighting up the front of the disabled van. That’s when the blonde straightened up and faced them.

“My-my, I say, my goodness!” Mike-Man articulated.

“Well shee-it my drawers and my mama’s to boot,” Jorrie commented.

Her coat hung open, revealing breasts large enough to threaten to pop the buttons on her flannel blouse. She looked as if she’d been poured into them there jeans of hers, you know, those city-type jeans with the funny labels, like from Italy an’ shit.

Jorrie slapped Mike-Man on the back. “Now thems there is what my daddy would call one dandy set of milkers, boy. Like that famous chick Dolly Carton on all them supermarket papers, you know?”

“Yes sir. And that kisser on her? Looks like Vanner White or sumpthin’, or one of them prissy gals on Cosmerpolitan. ”

Jorrie polished off the rest of his beer. He drank Red, White, & Blue, on account of he was classier than Mike-Man about what he drank. “Man, we’se lucked out better than a coupla egg-suck dogs throwed in the henhouse tonight, ain’t we?”

“Yeah boy, that’s some fine gandering that there, and I’ll bet she’s got herself a bush on her you could plant a fuckin’ garden in.”

“We’se gonna be plantin’ more than gardens in that sweet stuff, just you watch, Mike-Man, my man. Don’t look like one of them stinky creeker chicks like we bust up all the time, either, and she’s sure’s shit no road hog. Bet she’s got one of them nice clean ‘n purdy coozes on her, don’t ya think?”

“Yeah boy,” Mike-Man concurred, still staring excitedly at her in the Blazer’s highs. “An’ I’ll bet she wears herself a lot of that nice city perfume like ya can buy in them fancy stores like Garfunkel’s and Ward’s and all.”

Jorrie gave Mike-Man another comradly slap on the back. His glass eye glinted in the expectation. “Come on, buddy-bro. My dog’s a barkin’ already. Let’s you and me put a little spark into this here little lady’s girly works.”

They climbed out of the Blazer. They left both doors open; they always did. That way it was easier to get to work on them. Just slide ’em in right across that big bench seat. Mike-Man’d hold ’em down with the knife from one side while Jorrie’d get them starkers from the other. It was a dandy system. They had it down pat.

“Hey there, purdy lady!” Jorrie greeted, and stepped up in his fine pointed shitkicker boots. A good point on your boots was always the ticket when you was gonna go out on a romp. For shakin’ down guys for their green, just one good hard kick in their works would take the fight outa the biggest and gnarliest of fellas, yes sir, or you hop up on the hood real quick like and give ’em a good kick in the chin. Then there was that time Jorrie’d been rucking it up with this stinky creeker gal out by Croll’s field, and Jorrie, see, he wasn’t all too keen on putting his pride and joy into that dirty stuff, what with the AIDS and the herpes and all, ’specially after he’d gotten himself a look at it, so he thought he might like a little of what his daddy called “mouth-lovin’,” but this dog-stinky creeker chick, you know what she said? She said, “You gawd-damn mama-fuckin’ cracker piece of shit! You just try puttin’ that in my mouth an’ see if I don’t bite it right off!” a comment which Jorrie, of course, did not take too kindly to, so what he did, he just gave that creeker gal one good swift kick in the spine, and that quelled her threatening protestations just as fast as shit through a city pigeon. Heard she was gettin’ around in a chair these days, and he figured it served her just right for saying something so downright awful. A gal’d have to be plumb crazy! Biogenic amine imbalance and sociopathy aside, when a fella the likes of Jorrie Slade tells you to entreat his genitals of the mouth, well you just better bone up and do it, unless you wanna spend the rest of your days rollin’ around in a chair, too, yes sir.

“I say, hey.” Jorrie smiled his great big chumly warm-hearted smile as he approached this ravishing, brick-shithouse-with-tits-like-ta-knock-your-socks-off blonde. “Me and my buddy here, we’se seen ya pulled over an’ all so we thought we’d stop and give you a hand.”

“Oh, you’re a godsend,” the blonde said, a relieved hand to her chest. “The engine just stopped cold on me. I don’t know what to do.”

Mike-Man played the game, scratching his head as he peered into the little hood. “Lemme see what I can do here, yes sir…”

“I really appreciate this,” she continued to gush. “It’s so cold out tonight. I’d be in a hell of a spot if you two boys hadn’t come by.”

“Now just you don’t worry yourself about that, sweetheart. Mike-Man here, he’s an expert on these kind of problems.”

“And you know what, Jor? I think I done found the problem already.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” the blonde exclaimed.

“Well, not really, at least not for you.” Jorrie chuckled. “The problem, see, is we don’t give a flyin’ feed-bag full of Berkshire hogshit about your busted van, don’t ya know.”

The blonde turned to him. “What do you m—”

“See, the problem is you’re probably the hottest-lookin’ piece of angel food cake to ever cross these here parts, and me an’ Mike-Man here, we’se each got ourselfs a rock-hard dog that I think it would be a real good idea for you to take care of. That, sweetcakes, is the problem.”

The blonde screamed high and hard as Mike-Man got his big meaty arm around her neck and was dragging her back. “Don’t help none to scream,” Jorrie pointed out. “Ain’t no one around to hear ya. So just you go ahead and scream all ya like.”

It wasn’t more than a couple of seconds before Mike-Man had the blonde in the Blazer kicking up a storm across the big bench seat. “Ya hold still now,” he thoughtfully advised. “I’d sure hate to have to kill ya, as fine a set of hooters as you got.’’ She gagged, trying to scratch him, but went rigid when Mike-Man placed the blade of his pearl-handled Buck against that soft, smooth throat of hers.

“There now that’s better, ain’t it, sweetcakes?” Jorrie queried. “Let’s see what we’se can do about gettin’ you out of these here constrictin’ garments, hmm?” He yanked her sassy fancy-labeled jeans right on off and tossed them in the road.

“Check out them purdy panties!” Mike-Man enthused. They were frilly and pink. “Bet she bought ’em at Garfunkel’s!”

“Or maybe even Ward’s,” Jorrie ventured. He peeled them off likewise. Suddenly the cold moonlight reverted his ruddy face to a primordial mask. His glass eye stared. “And a shaved snatch, lookit that, Mike-Man! Don’t that beat all?”

“Sure’s hail does,” Mike-Man was quick to agree. “That’s damn sure the purdiest slab of pie I ever did see.”

The blonde lay shivering. Terror pried her eyes open. Those big firm breasts of hers quivered like turgid Jell-O when Jorrie busted open that nice flannel blouse. “Best pair I’ve seen in quite a spell,” he was cordial enough to compliment, and he didn’t waste no time getting his hands on them. His erotomanic one-eyed gaze reveled in their shape: big as they were they didn’t have no sag to ’em at all, not like a lot of these gals who sport an ample rack and wind up havin’ ’em swinging to their bellybuttons once they get out of the bra. No sir, these didn’t have no flop to ’em whatsoever, and Jorrie really took a fancy to that, just as he took a fancy to that pretty shaved box. He gave her breasts a good, thoughtful kneading, then began to fiddle with her lower. “Ain’t it cute?” he observed. “Bet if I squeeze it, it squeaks!”

Mike-Man chortled his companion on. “Yeah boy! Bet it squeaks like one of them rubber dog toys!”

“Please don’t please don’t please don’t,” the blonde whimpered over and over through gleaming, perfectly straight white teeth.

Jorrie made to unbuckle his pants. “Down boy! Down!” he joked, alluding to his current state of libidinal animation. “First I think I’ll treat this purdy shaved pie to a good ole in and out, then I’ll have me a good creaming on this dandy knockers, huh?”

“Yeah boy!” Mike-Man celebrated, keeping the knife in place.

Jorrie’s good eye roved up and down the blonde’s tremoring flesh. He jacked his trousers down his hips. His glass eye felt cold in his hot skull, and he was tremoring himself quite a bit now, so close to this hot dish. He climbed up between those long, lean, silky legs, but when he looked up again—

“What the—Hey!”

Mike-Man was gone.

Jorrie craned forward, straining his monocular vision past the open driver’s door.

“Where the fuck’s you gone!”

Then he heard a quick, slick, ever faint crunch!

And a groan from way down low in the gut.

Within the block of darkness beyond, Mike-Man fumbled back up into view, teetering and cross-eyed. Jorrie stared.

“Yeah boy,” Mike-Man managed to croak. His eye—, balls seemed to revolve. “I think, I say, I think we done picked the wrong gal to pull a romping on tonight…”

But what was wrong? Mike-Man’s voice sounded really low and shaky like when you’re sure-fire drunk and can’t even say the words proper. Jorrie couldn’t figure it until he took a closer look and realized the cause of his friend’s newfound speech impediment.

“Holy Sheeeee-it!” Jorrie screamed.

Mike-Man’s eyes rolled up, and he sidled over dead in the footwell. A long, shiny knitting needle had been stuck clear through his ears.

The blonde smiled up at him in the moonlight; she began to laugh. A shakedown! Jorrie realized. He flailed to crawl out over the blonde, but a hand reached in and snatched onto his hair. He was dragged out of the Blazer, spun around, and slammed back. “Howdy,” a youthful voice greeted him. Jorrie’s visions swirled—it was some young dude trying to take him down! Where’d he come from? The van! he realized. We done been set up! Jorrie maneuvered to defend himself. His fine, hard-pointed boots had never failed him in the past; he’d taken out a good many fellas a lot bigger than this dude. He reeled back, then lashed out to kick this fucker a good one right in the nut sack.

And missed.

The blonde was still laughing, leaning up on the bench seat to watch. Jorrie’s throat was grabbed, and the back of his skull was slammed once, twice, three times good and hard against the inside edge of the door. On the fourth whack! his glass eye popped out of its socket and shattered on the road.

He collapsed as if crushed.

“Hey, Zy. I’ll bet you thought I’d never get out here. ”

The blonde stepped over Jorrie, retrieved her designer jeans, and stepped back into them. “Actually I wish you would’ve waited a little longer. These two were a riot.”

Jorrie’s right eye dimmed; he could still see in blurred pieces. The dude was dragging Mike-Man toward the van, grabbing either side of the knitting needle as though it were a convenient carrying handle. The blonde was grinning down at Jorrie, buttoning up her jacket.

“Thanks for stopping to lend a hand. It was very charitable of you.”

Jorrie couldn’t move.

“Hey!” the dude said. “I like those boots.”

The blonde shrugged. “Help yourself. It’s not like this hayseed’s going to be needing them anytime soon.”

Jorrie felt his fine hard leather shitkicker boots pulled off his feet. The dude stepped into them. “Nice fit, fella. Thanks.”

The blonde departed to start the van. The dude, whistling “Eighteen Wheels and a Dozen Roses,” dragged Jorrie to the vehicle and threw him into the back.

His consciousness seemed adrift in a sea of dull pain. He felt heaped atop things. The van doors slammed shut. Jorrie’s one eye moved against its nerves. Mike-Man’s body lay limp upon several more bodies. One fella’s head had been crushed. Another fella lacked a head altogether. On the other side, though, Jorrie felt movement. His eye darted. More bodies lay atop one another, only these were alive. Three of them at least, all girls who’d been tied up and gagged. They squirmed together in shared terror.

The dude climbed into the passenger side. “Not a bad night,” he commented, taking a glance into the back.

‘Sure.” The blonde pulled onto the road. “But you’re going to have to be more thorough in the future, Lemi. He’s still alive.”

“Huh?”

“The guy with the boots. He’s still alive.”

“Oh. Well I’ll fix that splickety-lit.”

“That’s lickety-split, Lemi. Jesus.”

“Whatever.” This Lemi dude climbed into the back, ducking his head. He was still whistling. Jorrie gave a crushed grunt when he took the first kick in the middle of the spine. Suddenly his legs felt like dead meat. Next, the fine hard point of the boot rammed into his neckbone, quite effectively fracturing the #2 and 3 cervicular vertebrae, hence transecting the spinal column. Jorrie Slade’s brain went out like a light.

Candles flickered behind him from sconces set into rock. The Factotum stepped forward to the nave. It was damp down here, and strangely warm. Seepage trickled. The stone floor bore the vaguest shapes: blood, no doubt, decades old. The blood of all the people who’d been murdered here. Did their ghosts linger as well?

Ghosts, the Factotum pondered. He could have laughed.

He wore a garment akin to a priest’s black cassock, but the Factotum was no priest. He might be called a priest of sorts, yet only in the darkest connotation. The back of his bald head reflected the wavering candlelight—tongues of gentle flame squirming over skin. Beneath the cassock, his naked body felt purged, revitalized. He felt strong again. He felt good.

He breathed in the nave’s damp vapor. Untainted, fresh. When he closed his eyes, a smile touched his lips, for he saw things—the most wonderful things. Things like exaltation, glory, reward. In the onyx-black shapes behind his eyes, he saw tenacity and the sheer, crystal promise of infinity.

Such a blessing, he thought. His heart felt afire.

Such a blessing to serve.

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