Jeff Jacobson - Foodchain

When Frank got back to the trailer, he found Sturm in the La-z-boy, talking on the cell phone. Frank wondered if he was the only person in the west without a cell phone. He kind of wished he hadn’t tossed out the one he found in the car.

Sturm looked up. “Any suggestions for a tranquilizer?”

Frank thought for a moment. “We used Acepromezene at the track. If it’ll calm down a goddamn thoroughbred, it should work here. Ketamine, too, if you can get it.”

“How much?”

Frank shrugged. “As much as you can get.”

* * * * *

Frank returned for the last bucket. Sturm was waiting. The cell phone had disappeared. “Have a seat.”

Frank tossed the bucket under the table, but remained standing. Sturm leaned back, folded one leg over the other, adjusted his jeans, and clasped his hands across his groin. It looked awful prim and proper coming from a guy in a black Stetson. “So. What should I call you? Mr. Winter? Or maybe Mr. Winchester?”

“Call me Frank.”

“And how am I supposed to know what’s true here?”

“The name I gave you is my real name.”

“Is that so.”

“Look, there’s some…people after me. Some connected people, if you follow. Men with friends. Powerful friends. A lion, from here, killed one. Another went into the alligator tank. I don’t know what happened to him. And this,” he nodded at the last bucket, “is the rest of the men who knew I was here. When I was at the fight, at the time, I didn’t think it was smart to give my real name.”

“Hell son, you can call yourself Mary fucking Poppins for all I give a shit. When someone makes money off me—I don’t give a flying shit how much it is, twenty bucks or twenty thousand—I’m going to know how. And why. I make it my business. All I really want to know right now is why you bet against me and my son.”

Using the fencepost, Frank arranged the logs in the firepit into a pyramid shape, then jammed the end of the post into the center of the fire. “Well. You have to understand that it was nothing personal. I’m not exactly from around here.”

Sturm waited patiently.

As he talked, Frank heaped more wood, solid chunks of oak, onto the fire, keeping the fence post in the very heart of the fire. “Your son, he looked liked he worked hard, that’s for damn sure. But it looked like he’d spent a lot of hours in the gym, instead of…” Frank took a deep breath, and shoved the end deeper into the fire. “That other kid, he looked like he’d spent a lot of time getting the shit kicked out of him.” He twisted the fencepost slowly, and deep in the fire, the blades slowly broke away. “You have to understand, when I got to the fight, I didn’t know anything about you, anything about this town. Didn’t know any history.”

Sturm nodded and glanced over his shoulder at the animal cages. “So all that time you were drinking and driving all over God’s creation, them boys never said anything. Okay. Fine. So all I want to know is why .”

Frank shrugged. “It looked like the other kid knew how to fight.”

Sturm looked pained, as if each word was a tooth being pulled out slowly with a pair of pliers. “So what you’re saying is, if I’m understanding this right, from an outsider’s point of view, it looked as if that little Glouk pissant was tougher than my boy.”

“I don’t know about tougher. It looked like he’d been in more fights, yeah.”

Sturm looked like he might throw up. “Jesus humping Christ.”

Frank kept twisting the fencepost, sinking it deeper and deeper into the fire, ignoring the heat that seared his face. The fire burned hotter and the silence grew, stretched thin. But neither said anything else.

* * * * *

Sturm walked with Frank to empty the last bucket. When the meat was gone, they stopped for a while, watching two lionesses gulp it down. Sturm took off his hat and held it at his side as he crept slowly up to the cage. He breathed out long and slow, letting the cat smell his breath. Her ears flicked. “Whoooeeeee,” he said, a low, awed voice. “Look at her. Just look at her. You know the thing about lions? The females? They’re the ones that hunt. Males don’t do shit. They just sleep and fuck. The females, they’re the tough ones. They’re the ones that deserve respect, the ones to watch out for.” Sturm reached out, put his hand flat against the bars. The lioness snarled, suddenly vicious, ears flattened, head low.

Sturm laughed delightedly. “Goddamn. Goddamn! Look at them teeth. That’s something.” He cocked his head. “Those canines, oh boy, they’re bigger’n your thumbs. That’s something all right.” He glanced back at Frank. “Did you see them teeth back in my office?”

Frank thought of all the picture frames that surrounded the large window and shook his head.

“When we get back, I’ll have to show you ’em. Just got a whole set of Moray eel teeth. Goddamn needles. Vicious. Mean, you know? Not like these.” He nodded at the lioness. “These are…I don’t know. Honorable. Proud.” He stepped back and replaced his hat. “You can tell everything about an animal by its teeth. How it lives. What it eats. Anything.” Sturm was excited. “They tell us everything about evolution. God’s plan. Those with the biggest teeth dominate. See, you being a vet and all, you oughta understand this.”

“Her teeth are bigger than mine. Yet she’s in a cage and I’m out here.”

“Don’t mean shit. Her being in a cage. That’s missing the point. Physically , she has bigger teeth, yes. But I’m talking about the bigger picture here. Your opposable thumbs there, those’re nothing but longer, sharper teeth.” Sturm nodded again, then shrugged. “We’re nothing but predators. That’s all there is to it. We’re nothing special. We’re just like them. Oh sure, we’re at the top. But it’s a tenuous hold, make no mistake. Long as we got our thumbs using tools, we’re set, but take those tools away, and we ain’t shit. Makes me sick sometimes, the arrogance I see. People thinking that humans are some kinda’ higher life form. That we’re meant for some kind of enlightenment. Bullshit. We’re just efficient eaters. That’s all. And we’re just gonna keep eating and killing every goddamn thing until something else comes along and takes our place at the top.”

Frank wondered just how big that tumor in Sturm’s head had gotten.

The cell phone rang. It was the clowns, and they were on their way.

DAY FOUR

“That’s one big pussy,” Chuck said when he saw the tiger.

Sturm was giving everyone the grand tour. The three clowns and two other drivers, quiet Mexicans that worked at the auction yard as well, had brought damn near every truck in Whitewood. Frank counted three semis with livestock trailers, plus Chuck’s pickup. Frank was kind of surprised it had managed to make the entire trip. They even brought the tow-truck, just in case. The only large vehicle that Frank could think of that wasn’t here was the ancient fire engine that rested in the park in the center of town.

While the two Mexican men smoked cigarettes and kept an eye on all the trucks that were parked along the narrow, twisted road that ran through the center of the zoo, Sturm introduced the clowns to all of the animals, providing a running commentary on the strengths, predatory instincts, and pretty much anything else that popped into his mind. Frank was impressed with the depth of Sturm’s knowledge. Those books back in the office hadn’t been just for looks.

Sturm had even found places in the zoo that Frank hadn’t seen. Frank was surprised and sickened to find out that two chimps also lived at the zoo, locked away in a cinderblock storage shed. The door was a length of chain-link fence, stretched sideways. Black shit coated the walls. The two chimps huddled together in the far corner and watched the men through heavy-lidded eyes. Much of their hair was worn down to white skin pockmarked with seeping, open sores, like infected blisters that had finally popped.