Demon Box

“Yeah, some pussy.”

“Yeah! Hey you up there in them red pants”—boredom is beginning to stiffen into horniness—“why don’cha interview me?”

“O, cook, cook, cook that ol’ dog!”

They’ve got Reject masturbating Stewart. A roar of applause congratulates the ejaculation.

“Hey you know what? I can do better’n that.”

“Right on, Little Lou! Do it! Do it!”

“Cook! Cook! Get it, dog!”

“Yea! I won!”

“You won my dick! Reject pumped out a good half a quart more than you.”

“So what? You want quantity or you want quality? I made him shoot all the way to that piece of wood. If you’re talkin quality I can jack off circles around Reject and you both!”

“Lucifer, get us some warshwater.”

“Hey, Lucifer!”

“Where the hell is he? I want my hands warshed.”

“He’s getting Bert a beer. Reject, see if you can find a hose.”

“I know what! Let’s sit that chick with the toothache over there and see if Stewart can hit her in the mouth.”

“Yeah! There you go! Cook!”

The black car again, like a dispatch runner back and forth from the front.

Jenneke bends over to feel the temperature of the pond. Even sixty yards away her ass shines like a beacon through the thin kimono.

“Hey you know what? I could go for some smorgasbord.” More talk of leaving and worry about the State Troopers. They’ve managed to locate one helmet and Awful Harry has it on, out in the goat pen. He’s down on all fours battling Killer the goat. Jenneke the animal lover strides around, hands on her hips, glowering and joggling.

“Mmmboy let’s hang around another day,” somebody suggests on the basis of Jenneke’s boobs.

“Mmmboy let’s fucking not! I aint no oral surgeon.”

“Hey where’s Old Bert? We’re getting ready to roll anybody seen Old Bert?”

Going to pee I find Bert and Harry’s hithchiking ladyfriend drying off after a shower. The 45 portable is sitting on the dryer—“Take a… take another little piece of my har-ar-art…”

Bert grins at me. “Be outta here in a hot second,” he says, sheepish. Old Bert’s the only one I know anymore. Everybody else crippled or busted or snuffed. Bert used to be president, says now he’d rather ride than ride herd. “—we just had to rinche off the cum.”

Back up in the office I hear more bikes starting. Harry comes walking across the yard, bare-bellied, swinging his arms wide out like his ribs hurt. Maybe old Killer tagged him one.

Now Bert is kicking his old chopper over. Same one he took to London, years ago. The girl puts the record player in the black car then shuffles around, uncertain. Awful Harry rolls his big luxury model out of the garage, declares he’s got brakes again. The girl looks from Old Bert’s old bike with its skimpy seat, to Harry’s new Electroglide with elaborate leather cushions and sissybar. Harry shakes his head at her.

“Oh no you don’t, bitch! He balls you, he hauls you.”

She climbs on behind Old Bert and wraps her sunburned arms around his waist. He grins up at me.

More popping, roaring, backfiring, churning brown dust and blue smoke… stalling and stalling… then, all at once, they are leaving, whooping and roaring, rolling in a long detonating wave out our dirt road to the pavement, west, rap-bap-bapping up the grade toward Mt. Nebo, then out of sight, south, echoing their way through the smokey afternoon.

“Right off!” Rumiocho squawks when the last one is gone.

A civilization begins to drift back over the farm, like the settling dust. The silence is a thunderclap of relief.

Me, I’m gonna go change out of these boots and back into my moccasins.