Jeff Jacobson - Foodchain

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” Pine said.

Sturm asked Frank, “Feel like taking a tumble in the sheets? It’s on me. Theo’s up there right now.”

Frank said, “Maybe later.”

Sturm clapped him on the shoulder. “You take your time. Enjoy yourself. You earned it, by God.” He looked up at the dark windows. “Shit. I’d be up there myself, but this goddamn cancer, it’s like God squeezed out a big old turd and left it in my head. Fucks with my equipment. Makes me wonder sometimes if you can still be a man even if you can’t get your dick up.” He suddenly cracked himself viciously in the temple with his knuckles. “Maybe I oughta get myself one of them Viagras.” He considered it for a moment, then said, “Piss on it,” and went through the sliding glass doors into the kitchen.

“Hey Frank. Frank, right?” Bronson called out. He emptied the last few drops of Scotch into his tumbler. “Frank…Frank Buck. That’s it. Mr. Frank ‘Bring ’em Back Alive’ Buck. How’s the jungle these days? How’s the animal business? Them cats, they’re something all right, when you’re right up close. Sturm wasn’t shitting me. It’s not like watching ’em on TV, that’s for sure. These cats, take your face clean off. Just clean off. Of course,” Bronson said with a sly smile, “I certainly hope they put up more of a fight tomorrow.”

“Maybe even make it out of the trailer,” Fairfax said.

Theo came downstairs and was hailed with a drunken cheer. He ignored the men and stomped down the stairs into the darkness towards the barn and back fields.

“Well. Doesn’t appear to be his night,” Bronson said quietly.

“Shit, it ain’t his year,” Pine said, just as quiet.

“Wonder if he got the chrome sucked off his trailer hitch!” Fairfax said, a little too drunk, a little too loud.

“You got something you want to say?” Sturm said from behind the screen door, silhouetted from the kitchen lights.

Fairfax looked like he’d just swallowed an entire abalone, raw. “Ahhh, no disrespect intended, see, ahh, just having a little fun with the boys—“

“What? Don’t know if I heard you rightly. No disrespect intended, but you think you can have a little fun with the boys at my boy’s expense, is that it?”

Fairfax looked at Bronson, eyes wide and pleading, but Bronson just grinned and looked at the table.

In the sudden silence, they heard one of the hooker’s voices, low and scratchy from too many cigarettes, “—little fucker. Not my fault he came in his pants. I tried to be nice. I did.”

“Keep it down.” The pimp’s voice.

“Fuck you, pussy. You’re supposed to be here to keep an eye on things. Make sure shit like this don’t happen. Little fucker didn’t have to hit me.” The scratching click of a lighter, then a long exhale. “Rich little fucker.”

Suddenly Sturm wasn’t standing at the screen door anymore. The men heard his voice, clear as daylight. “Miss. I’m gonna ask you once. Put that cigarette out. No one smokes in this house. I mean it.”

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are you little freak, but I will not be treated like—” Her voice broke off suddenly in a faint crunch. And just as suddenly, it was back, twice as loud, “BATHTARD! You—”

Then a thud. A scream. Slamming doors. Sturm’s voice, calm, even. “Get this stupid cunt out of my house.”

A hooker came sliding into the kitchen on her face. Her mouth left ragged streaks of blood and fresh purple lipstick on the floor. Sturm followed, knotted her long, plastic, blond hair in his fist, and yanked her to her knees.

The pimp said, “Back the fuck off, dude. I will fuckin’ kill you.”

Sturm slammed the hooker’s face into one of the cabinets. “Do it then.”

The pimp didn’t look happy about it. He licked the sides of his mustache and mumbled, “Shit man. Now why did you do that for?”

Sturm did it again. The woman moaned, blood bubbling from her nose. “You got shit in your ears, faggot?”

The pimp took off his sunglasses, made a show of putting them in his pocket.

Sturm slammed her head into the cabinet a third time, this time cracking the wood.

The pimp popped his right foot at Sturm’s chest in the blink of an eye, but Sturm was faster. He swung the hooker in front of him and so the pimp kicked her in the side of her head. The pimp resettled himself, and was just about to launch a series of kicks and punches that must have looked impressive in the gym, but Sturm broke the pimp’s nose with his free hand. The pimp’s head snapped back and blood actually hit the ceiling.

“Like I said, get this stupid cunt out of my house.”

The two other hookers, who had been hiding in the hall, finally came into the kitchen, helped the pimp to his feet and dragged the unconscious woman out the front door.

“You set foot in this town again and I guarantee you I will put a bullet in you,” Sturm said from the front steps. The two hookers dumped their business associates in the back seat and were smart enough not to say anything, just slammed the doors. The minivan took off with a jerk and a cloud of dust and gravel. They didn’t even turn on the headlights until they were safely down the long driveway.

* * * * *

Sturm pulled Frank aside. “Listen, do me a favor, would you? Would you go out and find my son, make sure he’s okay? Maybe even talk to him. I’d ask one of the boys, but I think Theo’s been through enough tonight. They’re liable to give him a hard time, and you, well, I think you got enough sense to realize…well, hell he’s at that age, you know. Don’t want to listen to anybody, really, much less his father.”

“Sure.” Frank went down the stairs and stood at the far edge of the garden for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. A few minutes ago, his head had been swimming merrily along thanks to the fifth of rum. But now, standing out in the dark under enough stars to make a man go mad, he suddenly felt uncomfortably sober. His sweat felt cold and he shivered. The crickets were quiet. Even the mosquitoes had holed up for the night.

Truth was, he was scared. He didn’t think he’d been this nervous since he’d had to talk to the cops outside the gas station. Theo was one goddamn cruel bastard. At least, with the clowns, you could see it coming if they lost their temper. With Sturm’s son, you never knew what the hell he was thinking. Frank wouldn’t put it past him to fling a pitchfork or something just because he didn’t want to be bothered.

So Frank took his time and moved as quietly as he could. The barn loomed in front of him, dark as a tomb. He stepped inside the open door, skin on his neck crawling as he realized he must be silhouetted against the lights of the house. Once inside, he could hear nothing but Sarah contentedly chewing on hay.

He crept along the aisle, eyes straining in the palpable blackness. The fear grew. He couldn’t help but wonder if Theo was watching him, stalking him. A tiny spot on his back, right between his shoulder blades grew hot and tight, as if there was a laser sight pointed right at him. He whipped around, but the aisle was empty.

The horse stopped chewing and watched him warily for a moment.

In the sudden silence, Frank could hear something else. From out back. Out behind barn. Where they had left the lion. A hushed grunt. Then, hissed between clenched teeth, “See? See? I told you, you bitch. I told you.”

Frank swallowed. Sarah put her head down and tore off another mouthful of alfalfa. Frank moved to the far end of the barn, gently easing his boots through the dust. The hoarse grunts continued. “You. You. You.”

Frank peered through a crack in the sliding door. Out in the grass, under the stars, Theo had his jeans down around his knees and was hunched over the back of the dead lion, fucking it. His white ass pummeled lion, making the big cat’s corpse shudder with each thrust. “You. You. You.” Theo said every time he slammed into the lion.