Jack Yeovil - Demon Download

"AM or FM?"

"Two-way. I need to call in."

"There's a…what yiu call eet? There's a germeenal een thee chorch."

"Terminal."

"Si, a termeenal. Eet may be broke. Thee ronaway car smash eet op a leetle."

"That's just great. Thanks, anyway."

"No trouble, Senor Trooper."

Stack would have to go back to Tiger Behr's, and light out in the morning. He wasn't sure what the nearest real town where he could make a call was, but he'd find it before his borrowed cyke ran out of gas. Meanwhile, he had best look after himself.

"Another whisky?"

"Sure theeng, Senor." Armindariz poured again.

Stack sipped his drink. He held it up to the light, and gave a silent toast. To Leona Tyree…

Leona. She had been a hell of a woman. Cav all the way.

" Senor ?" Armindariz butted into his reverie.

"What is it?"

"Would yiu mind payeeng for your cheellee and dreenks now?"

"No, why?"

Stack realized he wasn't alone at the bar.

Armindariz leaned forwards confidentially. "I theenk maybee thee Gaschoggers keell yiu later on thees evening, then I no get my monee for thee goods I geeve yiu, and that ees bad for beesneess."

A hairy hand fell on his arm, forcing it to the bar. His drink spilled.

"Plenty sloppy, ain't ya?" sneered a tattooed heavy. His breath stank of gasoline.

The Gaschuggers got their name because of their drinking habits. They had all had their bladders souped up so they could drink gas and whisky and piss high-grade fuel into their cykes' tanks. None of the gangcultists the Cav had ever brought in had been able to explain the appeal of the practice, but there you were…

"Maybe the yellowbellied yellowlegs needs some lessons in etiquette, Exxon," somebody said.

"Yeah," said the tattooed guy, Exxon. "Maybe he does. Maybe his yeller streak runs up the side of his legs and goes all the way up his back too."

"Stand down," Stack said. "I've got no quarrel with you."

Armindariz was down the other end of the bar, paying close attention to some stains he was wiping up. The game of dominoes was heating up, and Pauncho was kibbitzing. Stack was on his own. He judged there were five or six 'chuggers. Exxon would be the big chief. That was the tag the leader of the pack always drew.

Slowly, be turned round on his stool. He had guessed right. Five guys, counting Exxon, and one girl. All stinking of gas.

"You're Cav, ain't ya?" asked Exxon.

Stack nodded, his hand resting on the butt of the pumpgun. It would be awkward to prime and fire it from the stool. He'd never drop them all before they got him. Maybe they would all explode. With their lifestyle, spontaneous combustion must be a a regular health hazard.

"Well, the Cav is always always always down on the 'chuggers for no reason. And you represent the Cav, so we're mixing it with you."

Shit, he was going to die.

And he hadn't figured out what the buzz was with the mad cruiser and Leona and the impaled priest yet.

"Mobil," Exxon said, "get the man a drink. Not that piss-poor firewater he's been abusing himself with all evenin'. A real drink."

Shit, shit, shit. He was going to die, but first he was going to have to drink gasoline.

Mobil was the runt of the litter. He jumped up and sat on the bar. He took Stack's glass and threw the whisky onto the floor.

"Sorry, Pedro," said Exxon.

"That's okay, boys," replied the bartender. "Jost clean op after."

Mobil took a canteen and poured pink liquid into the glass. Paraffin. He sniffed the bouquet, said "a very good year," and knocked it back.

"After a good drink," he said, "what better than a relaxing cigarette?"

He produced a pack and a fliptop lighter.

"Me, I prefer the cool, mellow taste of Sandino's, the cigarette with a longer-lasting tang and that macho muchaco whiff."

He lit the lighter, and beamed across the flame.

Stack flinched backwards as his eyebrows were singed by the fiery cloud Mobil had exhaled. It went out in an instant. Stack's face felt hot, but it was nothing compared to Slim's Gas 'n' B-B-Q.

"Caramba," said Mobil, finishing off the ad, "but dat is some wild cigarette."

"Looks like we got us a blackface entertainer," said Exxon. He used his stubby forefinger to smear the soot into Stack's face, especially around the lips and eyes. "One thing you have to say about nigras is that they sure can be entertainin', eh amigos ?”

The Gaschuggers laughed in unison.

"Remember how them Voodoo Bros danced for us…"

Exxon was smiling wistfully now, remembering the good times.

"…when we strung 'em up."

Mobil had another shot of parrafin poured. He lifted it to Stack's lips, and tipped. Stack gulped, hoping the chilli had permanently done for his sense of taste. He got it down without spluttering. Mobil was waving his lighter around near his face, flicking the flame on and off.

"What kind of entertainin' do you reckon Sidney Freakin' Poitier here'd be best at, chugbuddies? Singin', dancin', acrobatics, sleight o' hand, tellin' them funny stories, mind-readin'?"

Mobil put his head uncomfortably close to Stack's and said, "no, I reckon we gots us one o' them meat-packin' pore-nographic superstuds. Them nigras 's always at it, jus' like rabbits 'r somethin'. I'll jus' bet Al Freakin' Jolson here rakes in the big bucks stickin' his tubesteak into dawgs and hawgs and French ladies and just plain dumb ole greasy holes in the wall, that's what I figger."

Mobil was getting excited. Good, that might make him careless. That might give Stack a chance.

"Mobil's a pervert, you know," said Exxon. "It's a shame, but there it is. A man can't help the way he was brung up."

Mobil was double-dyed redneck from way back—the Ozarks or somewhere—but Exxon's sneer was a put-on. Slack reckoned he might have done some time at Harvard or Yale. This was an educated panzerboy.

"My guess is that you're not a porno stud. Who'd pay to sec a skinny little thing like you pumping in the bunk with some fat whore? No, you're something more sporting. Like a jockey."

Stack didn't move.

"No? Maybe a basketball player. A lot of your tinted ethnic types bounce the ball pretty fair, I hear. Nah, you're a shortie. And you've got no coordination."

The pumpgun had been eased out from under his hand and passed to the back of the saloon. The lone 'chugger girl—a fourteen year-old with ancient eyes and a plumed pompadour was cradling it like a child.

"Does your mother know where you are?" Stack asked her.

"Freak off, faghagg!" she spat in a high, vicious, little voice.

Exxon hardballed a fist into his gut. His burns flared up, and the chilli and paraffin shifted in his stomach.

Shit, shit, shit. He was going to die with vomit in his mouth.

"Don't talk to white ladies, nigra. That's a hanging offence in this county. Why, we don't cotton much to darkies talking to dawgs. If n they start pesterin' the womenfolks, who knows where it'll all stop?"

One of the Gaschuggers—the one with the robo-claw—was black, but he wasn't upset by Exxon's speeches on racial subjects.

"I know what you are, boy. You're a fighter, ain't ya? Bare knucks, one on one, two guys bloodying each other's titties. Maybe you wear a couple of sharp rings to cut deeper."

Exxon shadowboxed in front of Stack's face, occasionally tapping him lightly on the chin or the cheeks.

"You could'a bin a contendah, Sugar Ray, instead of a bum, which is what y'are."

The big one was coming. Stack tensed his aching stomach, and gripped the bar. Mobil held his shoulders, fingers positioned like a masseur's but ready to dig in, and one of the other 'chuggers had his arms behind him. Exxon danced and punched the air.