Die Dog or Eat the Hatchet Page 11

  Chains said, “There’s your skunk ape, asshole.”

  So far I’d mistaken a black bear and an orangutan for a skunk ape; and yet never once had I looked in my shaving mirror and mistaken myself for George Clooney. The only thing I can say in my defense was that the beast smelled like you’d expect a skunk ape to smell; like a wet pack mule saddled with shitty diapers.

  Chains said to the orangutan, “Say hello to our guests, Mofo.”

  Things were plenty weird enough already; if the orangutan actually started talking, I thought I would scream. Mercifully, the ape just blew a raspberry and flipped me the bird. Exactly like he did to Walt from the sidecar, that night at The Henhouse—and just like that, the final piece of the jigsaw fell into place.

  The only thing I still couldn’t figure was that big pile of shit and the bike tracks we’d found in the Sticks. I guessed the Apes had been on their way out to Herb’s farm when they’d stopped for Mofo to pinch a loaf. Who knows how Baby Doll lost the doll’s head from her necklace? And hell, I really wasn’t giving it much thought, focused as I was on the big-ass ugly orangutan glaring at me.

  “We won him in a game of cards from a fella runs a roadside zoo,” Chains said. “Mofo’s been riding with us for years now.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the sidecar attached to his hog, just in case I thought the orangutan had his own bike, although right then, nothing would have surprised me. “Full-blood member. Somewhere under all that fur, he’s even got the ink.”

  It was all I could do just to shake my head in disbelief.

  “We was holed up in a motel outside Jasper,” Chains explained, “try’na figure out where we was gonna cook. Shawna’s got the TV playing—” He glanced at Baby Doll. “What was it you was watching, girl?”

  Baby Doll thought long and hard. “Mike & Molly?”

  Chains rolled his eyes and sighed. “After Mike & Molly, you dumb cunt.”

  “Oh,” Baby Doll said.

  Chains stressed to me, “We wasn’t watching Mike & Molly.”

  “Sure you weren’t,” I said.

  Chains looked like he wanted to press the point.

  Then Baby Doll said, “The Unexplained Files.”

  Chains snapped his fingers. “The Unexplained Files,” he nodded. “It just come on the TV like a sign from God. A special ‘bout the Bigelow Skunk Ape. ‘Cording to the show, moonshiners made him up to scare folks away from their whiskey stills. An’ that’s when it hits me. Alls we need is for the Bigelow Skunk Ape to make a reappearance, and then the Sticks is ours to do with what we please. We can cook up our shit without nobody coming out here n’ bothering us. Just like the moonshinin’ days. So we send Mofo off to scare the shit outta some dumbass yokels. Figured it’d be a fisherman or a hiker or something.” Chains looked at Eliza reproachfully. “Not a buncha freaks making a fuck-flick … Anyway, sure enough, word spreads about the ‘Skunk Ape’ and folks stayed away—until now.”

  “You would’ve got away with it too,” I said, “if it wasn’t for us pesky kids.”

  Chains grinned at me. “Something I didn’t count on,” he said, “there’d be anybody damn fool enough to come looking for the fucking thing.”

  “He kidnapped a friend of ours,” I said.

  “That wasn’t part of the plan,” Chains admitted. “But in Mofo’s defense, your friend was dressed provocatively in that baboon costume. Mofo took one look at that big red butt and fell in love. When he brung the fella back here, I didn’t see no harm in letting Mofo have some sport. And it’s a braver man than me who’ll stand in the way of a randy orangutan and his mate.”

  I glanced at the orangutan, shivering in the heat of its gaze.

  Mofo peeled off his biker vest and tossed it to Shitface. He started pacing the dooryard, stomping his huge feet, pinwheeling his arms and chinking his neck.

  “Whoa—” I said. “The hell’s it doing?”

  “Limbering up,” Chains said.

  Sick fear shuddered through me. “Limbering up for what?”

  Chains gave a throaty chuckle. “Take it easy, sport. Unless you’re planning on slipping into your buddy’s baboon costume, I reckon you’re safe.”

  Then he grinned at me and said, almost purring, “Reggie Levine …”

  I tried not to show my surprise that he knew my name.

  “You know,” he said, “I saw you fight Boar Hog Brannon.”

  “If you could call it that,” I said.

  “Always wondered how Boar Hog’s fists took all that punishment.”

  “My head wondered the same thing.”

  “Heard you hung up your gloves after that?”

  “Figured I’d quit while I was behind.”

  “Never tempted to lace ‘em back up?”

  I cut an anxious glance at the orangutan.

  “Nope,” I said, not liking where this conversation was going.

  “Shame,” Chains said. “It took true grit sticking it out with Boar Hog for as long as you done …” He turned to the other Apes. “In fact, I reckon ‘The Bigelow Bleeder’ Reggie Levine could last … oh, let’s call it four minutes versus Mofo.”

  “Four minutes?” Shitface scoffed. “Bullshit! I’ll take me summa that action.”

  The Apes started placing bets. I noticed that none of them were betting on me to win. They were wagering how quickly Mofo would beat me to death.

  “Wait a minute—” I staggered to my feet. “You don’t honestly expect me to fight an orangutan, do you?”

  “What’s the problem?” Chains said. “Mofo’ll give you a fair fight.” He seesawed his hand. “Ish.” He shadowboxed a few lefts and rights. “Taught him myself.”

  “This … this is crazy,” I stammered. “I’m not fighting a fucking monkey!”

  Chains nodded like he understood perfectly. “Then I guess you’re getting beat to death by one.”

  Eliza came awake with a groan. Reaching for her head, she hissed in pain as her fingers prodded the lump on her skull. She glanced around at the Apes. Then she saw the orangutan and her eyes bugged with shock. She clutched at my leg.

  “Mr. Levine?” she whispered. “Do you see that orangutan doing stretching exercises over there?”

  I assured her I did.

  She sighed with relief, like she wasn’t going crazy after all.

  “Mr. Levine?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The hell’s going on?”

  I just shook my head.

  “Mr. Levine?”

  “Yes, Eliza.”

  “Am I dreaming?”

  “I think we both are.”

  Chains was enjoying himself so much, he decided to be generous. “Tell you what, sport. You beat Mofo—” The other Apes hooted with laughter at this preposterous notion: “—I’ll let you and your lady friend and even Mofo’s little fuck-buddy leave here alive.” He held up his hand: “Scout’s honor.”

  What the hell other choice did I have? Way I saw it, I could just curl in a ball and allow myself to be torn limb from limb by an orangutan, or I could throw a few punches for pride’s sake, and then be torn limb from limb by an orangutan.

  I sucked in my gut, stripped off my shirt and handed it to Eliza.

  “Good luck, Mr. Levine.”

  “You get a chance,” I whispered to her, “run.”

  I forced myself to look at my opponent. My mouth went dry and I swallowed hard and my Adam’s apple tried to choke me. The orangutan was pacing at the other end of the yard, bunching his wrecking ball fists, his knuckles popping like firecrackers. He glared at me contemptuously and I knew he could smell my fear. Scared as I was, all I could think about was Boar Hog Brannon and the beating he’d given me the last time I fought. Sure, there’d been bar brawls and parking lot punch-ups since then, but nothing like that painful night in the prize ring.

  And of course, nothing like this.

  Smiley was smiling a bloody smile and waving his axe like it was a Mofo pennant. Watching me get beaten to death by an orangutan
was clearly a more fitting demise than anything he could have devised himself. “Fuggim ugg, Moofoo!” he cried around his shattered dentures. The other Apes crowded around the dooryard, baying for blood and barking their support for Mofo.

  Chains dragged Eliza to the porch steps and sat down, pulling her onto his lap.

  I glanced at him, started saying, “What are the rules here—?”

  Then the orangutan’s arm cleared the length of the dooryard like a long hairy bargepole, and he speared me with a jab that snapped my head back and to the left like the JFK kill shot. The blow shuddered down through me, buckled my knees and made me pigeon-toed. Before I even knew what hit me, the orangutan was charging, kicking up dust as he thundered across the yard towards me. I tried to cover up, but my arms refused to cooperate. I could only watch helplessly as the orangutan threw a long looping uppercut that exploded on my chin and hurled me back off my feet like a ragdoll. I hit the deck with a grunt, skidded back across the dirt like a skipping stone, thumping my head against a rusted engine block and jerking to a stop. The orangutan loomed above me, waving his arms above his head like Clay taunting Liston.

  The Apes cheered.

  “Rules?” Chains cackled from his perch on the porch steps. “Protect yourself at all times, slugger!”

  Splayed on my back in the dirt, my entire body was numb, prickling with pins and needles. I would have been content just to lie there and let the orangutan beat me to death. As long as it didn’t do to me what it had done to Ned, I could live with that. Except I hadn’t managed to throw a single punch yet, and God help me, I still had a shred of pride. I glanced at Eliza and saw the fear shining in her eyes. That was enough to stoke the furnace. I climbed to my feet—staggered but stayed up—brushed myself down. I pawed my face to check that my nose was still there. My fingers prodded a vaguely nose-shaped lump of putty that flared angrily. I snorted blood and spat it out on the dirt. Then I raised my mitts and nodded to the orangutan, acknowledging the shot that’d floored me.

  “Not bad,” I said, “but let’s see you try that again—” The words had barely left my lips before he swarmed back in. I tried to block the barrage of blows, but he smashed through my guard like a battering ram at the castle gates, and I started eating lefts and rights like I was starving for them. But I held my ground, tucked my chin to my chest and soaked up the punishment—my one saving grace was I had a chin like George Chuvalo, and a noggin like a fucking rock—praying to the boxing gods that the orangutan would soon run out of gas.

  The stubborn bastard refused to tire. I was fading fast myself. I wrestled him into a clinch, hanging on for dear life. The stench of his fur made me retch. I was grateful for my broken nose, that I couldn’t get a proper whiff of him. Tying up his arms, I pounded his ribs with crunching hooks. He just shrugged and threw me off him. As I staggered back, flailing my arms to keep my balance, my fist connected with his wounded shoulder and he let out a roar of pain.

  The sound was music to my ears.

  I’d hurt the sonofabitch; if he could be hurt, he could be beat.

  Leastways, that’s what I was hoping.

  Keeping out of range of his long arms, I started circling him like a shark scenting blood, preying on that wounded shoulder with popping jabs. The old training started coming back; I bobbed and weaved, darted in and out, sticking his shoulder with stinging shots and dancing away before he tagged me back.

  I didn’t know how long we’d been fighting, but I heard Smiley curse as his bet went to shit, and I got cocky, couldn’t resist winking at him—

  That was a mistake.

  The orangutan rocked me with a right I never saw coming.

  I did see the left; that’s the one that dropped me.

  I lay there pole-axed, eyes pinballing around in my skull, my vision blurred; I saw a whole colony of orangutans waddling forwards leisurely to finish me off.

  I glanced at Eliza. Mouthed, I’m sorry. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she bowed her head like Talia Shire in the Rocky movies. Usually that’s enough to inspire the Italian Stallion to one last onslaught, and victory. Not me. I was done.

  But somehow I managed to drag myself up off the ground; when the orangutan killed me, I wanted to die on my feet, not lying in the dirt like a dog.

  Mofo gave me a little nod—a mark of grudging respect, as if I’d given him more than he’d bargained for. Then he cocked his fist like he was drawing back on a hunting-bow, and as he let it fly—I dipped my head and caught the punch on the rock-hard dome of my skull. The orangutan shrieked as his knuckles fractured. He staggered back in pain, nursing his injured right paw, unable to even clench his fist. I swarmed him, and he covered up, jabbing weakly with his left to fend me off. But the damage I’d done to his wounded shoulder was money in the bank, and there was no strength in the shots. Bobbing and weaving past his pansy jab, I bulled my way forwards and worked his body, chopping him with hooks that cracked his ribs and made him gasp. He covered up his midsection—leaving his head unguarded—and then I pounced at him with a leaping left hook filled with fifteen years of bitterness and self-loathing, regrets and what ifs.

  I never threw a sweeter shot. It landed right on the button, clean on the point of the chin. His head damn near rotated like the girl’s in The Exorcist. He went down hard, like the tree that pulped Lester, out-cold before he hit the ground. A great cloud of dust billowed up and I sank to my knees at his feet. I’d put everything I had into that punch and didn’t have the strength left to even raise my arm in victory. But maybe that was just as well. Judging by their shocked expressions, the Damn Dirty Apes would not have appreciated me showboating.

  Eliza wrestled free from Chains’s arms and scrambled across the yard to embrace me. “You did it, Mr. Levine!” “You bet,” I gasped—and then celebrated by puking in the dirt.

  I caught my breath and then looked up at Chains, who was glaring daggers at me from his stoop on the porch. “We had a deal, right?” He didn’t answer. Just climbed to his feet and went over to Mofo. He shook his head in disgust at the unconscious ape. “Fucking fleabag don’t deserve to wear the ink,” Chains muttered. He snapped his fingers at Shitface. “Drag his sorry ass inside.”

  Shitface crouched over the orangutan and started slapping his face. Mofo snorted awake, blinking in confusion and shaking his head as if to clear the stars from his eyes. Shitface hauled the orangutan to his feet, slung an arm around his waist, and helped him stagger inside the farmhouse. Chains returned his attention to me.

  “About our deal?” I said, a little less optimistically.

  “Deal’s off,” Chains said.

  Then he nodded to Smiley. “Kill this motherfucker.”

  19.

  Eliza clung to me. “No! You can’t!”

  “Sweetheart,” Chains said with a sigh, “you oughta be worrying ‘bout what we’re gonna do to you.”

  Baby Doll stepped forwards and slapped the curse that was forming on Eliza’s lips. Then the biker bitch grabbed her by the hair and dragged her over to where Chains was standing at the foot of the porch.

  Smiley and Blubberguts loomed in front of me. Blubberguts snatched the sawed-off from his thigh holster and started raising it to my head. Smiley deflected the gun with his axe, the rusted blade clanging off the barrels. The big man frowned at Smiley in confusion. A rope of congealed blood was dangling from his ear where I’d clobbered him with the AK. But compared to what I’d done to Smiley’s mouth—shredded lips, chunks of false teeth embedded in his gums—Blubberguts looked in great shape. The big man seemed to acknowledge this and holstered his sawed-off. I was all Smiley’s. Shit.

  Smiley planted his feet like a golfer and then measured me with the axe for the blow that would cleave my skull in two. Hefting the axe high above his head, he was about to bring it slicing down—when a deafening cannon roared and Blubberguts’s upper torso suddenly burst like a blood-filled piñata, his head smashed away as if by an invisible wrecking ball. Smiley and me were splattered in gore like
we’d just done the Ice Bucket Challenge in a washtub of hog guts. Blubberguts’s lower body remained intact. His intestines unspooled in thick red ropes. He rocked back on the heels of his biker boots. Then his legs did a little Elvis shimmy and his bottom half thudded to the ground beside me, his feet twitching and raking the dirt.

  For a moment, as the echoing roar of the cannon faded over the farm, time seemed to stand still; no one moved, frozen in shock.

  Then I mopped the viscera from my eyes and looked across the overgrown yard.

  My first thought was not how Salisbury had survived—I remembered him saying that God loved a skunk aper—but to wonder if he’d waited to see how my fight with the orangutan panned out before springing into action.

  Still, I was glad to see the crazy sonofabitch, especially that elephant gun of his.

  Smoke billowed from the barrels as he strode towards the farmhouse.

  “Unhand the woman, you fornicating barbarians!”

  Salisbury fired off another shot. The porch upright next to Chains exploded into sawdust and splinters. A huge hole was blasted through the wall of the farmhouse. The porch roof buckled and collapsed. Chains leapt out of the way before he was buried beneath an avalanche of timber. Half his face was studded with wooden shrapnel, the wounds oozing blood. He hit the ground in a combat roll. Came back up with his six-shooter blazing. Skinning the hammer like a Wild West gunfighter. The sound of the six-shooter was nothing compared to the elephant gun—a chain of firecrackers to an H-bomb—but Chains’s aim was truer. Salisbury was reloading as the shots struck his chest and he staggered back with a cry and collapsed beneath the line of the tall grass.

  I glanced back at Eliza. That girl was no pushover. She’d taken advantage of the chaos and was now rolling around in the dirt with Baby Doll. They were going at it like wildcats in a sack, pulling hair and clawing eyes and yowling. Eliza rolled on top of Baby Doll and started throttling the bitch with her own necklace. When Baby Doll lay still on the ground—choked out—Eliza tore the necklace from her neck and gave a primal scream, waving it over her head like a trophy.