In Laymon's Terms

“Uh, Bert? Mary?” one of the men in suspenders called out. “You want us to...?”

Bert tilted back in his stool and patted Mary’s thigh. “All right, all right. Yeah, Leo, take him into the back. The smell’s starting to get to me anyhow. Junior, you keep an eye on the gal there,” he said, nodding to the young girl as she sat curled up in a corner booth, her horrified gaze frozen on the pantless corpse of her boyfriend. “And don’t touch her yet, you hear?”

“Don’t forget, Bert,” said Leo, “you promised to send your boy over to our place tomorrow night.”

Bert nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

The two men handed their shotguns to the large naked man and dragged Randy’s body into the rear kitchen.

Bert looked back down at Gary. “Sorry, friend,” he said, “looks like you’re gonna be keeping that date with Junior there, after all.”

“Damnit, Daddy,” the bloody, naked man growled, “I told ya not to call me that no more.”

Mary shot up from her stool. “Hey! Don’t you dare talk to your father like that, young man!”

“Sorry, Ma.”

“Wait—” The word gurgled in Gary’s throat. He knew he had to hurry and try for the briefcase, but strength was only now beginning to return and prickle in his arms and legs.

“Hey, I tried,” Bert said, throwing up his hands. “You heard me plead your case to Mary here, right? Right? Besides, now let me tell you the good news: you’re gonna be downright famous. Isn’t that the shits—famous and not even being around to enjoy it? So I’d like to thank you now, friend, for helping to soon make my little diner joint here the most famous restaurant in these parts. Least, that’s how me and the boy here have it figured,” he said with a proud smile.

Bert stood up off the stool and walked to the front windows of the diner, the rubber soles of his shoes squeaking on the wet floor. He looked out into the frosted darkness with his hands clasped behind his back and shook his head. “You should see how much traffic that old rickety house up the road gets. Thousands of folks traipsing up and down that highway from all parts, every day of the week, every damn week of the year. And you know how much of that business we get lately? Hm? Any idea? Well, let me tell you, it ain’t much, it ain’t much at all.”

“Amen to that,” Mary said.

Confident that her attention was fastened on Bert, Gary slowly and quietly drew his knees up and off to the side. His arms and legs felt like coiled springs lubed by nervous sweat.

“Now all them folks are eating at the new fancy-shmancy cafe they got set up there, or else they come away too damn sick from the tour to do any eating at all. Hell, we’re lucky if we get much out of the Beast House at all anymore. Sure not like it used to be.” He turned around and walked over to his son and clapped him on his broad back. “It was Junior here, bless him, that came up with the fix—well, the idea, at least—to get us back on the map.” The large nude man blushed.

Jesus, Gary thought, guy tears apart Randy and stands there naked in a two-foot strap-on wooden penis and he’s blushing? This is insane, unreal...I’ve got to act, get out of here, get home and Linda will be bitching at me that I’m late again and Kelly will hug me with her small arms and everything’ll be fine and normal again and—

“Boy came up to me one day,” Bert continued, “and said, ‘Daddy, sure is a damn shame none of them Beast killin’s weren’t done here at our place, get some of those folks spendin’ the big bucks here ’stead of that eyesore up north. Then we could set up our own wax dummies right here in the diner. Tourists love that shit.’ You hear that? My boy!” Beaming, he clapped him on the back again.

Mary shifted on her stool and smoothed her skirt. Gary tensed. Waited for Junior to look away.

“And don’t forget this here Beast outfit I made, Daddy, to fool all them—”

“Shut up, boy—Daddy’s talking now.”

The young man lowered his cowed eyes. “Sorry, Daddy.”

Gary steeled himself. He had to do it. No choice.

Bert went on: “Sounded so damn good some friends of mine wanted in, too. Leo and his brother in the back there for their feed store that’s ready to go under. And Bobby, well, his towing company’s doing just fine—I think he’s just a little tweaked in the head myself.”

Gary shot from the floor with a stumbling lurch, his arms outstretched and flailing. His fingertips brushed the corner of his briefcase. It tipped and slid off the counter even as his legs gave way beneath him and he crashed to his knees beside it. His sweaty fingers fumbled at the locks and the latches snicked open and he thrust his hand in to grab the small Glock 36 .45 that’ll blast these maniacs to hell and—

His hand closed on nothing but brittle sheets of paper.