Richard Laymon - The Traveling Vampire Show

Smirking, Valeria walked toward him. She moved slowly, her back arched, arms by her sides, as if offering to let him squeeze more than just air.

He pointed a finger at himself and mouthed, “Me?”

She nodded.

He reached out, actually clutched the red leather cups and squeezed them. He squeezed them a couple of more times, turning his head and mugging for the audience.

“I bet he’s a ringer,” Lee said.

“Huh?” I asked.

“Someone they planted in the audience. He can’t be for real.”

Rusty leaned forward. “I bet you’re right. She isn’t gonna let some stranger grab her… her you-know-what’s.”

Lee chuckled and shook her head.

Down in the cage, Chester had stopped making faces. He’d stopped pretending to honk Valeria’s breasts. Now he was stroking their bare tops while she stood there motionless, letting him.

Lucky Chester.

Then one of her hands glided forward and she rubbed the front of his Bermuda shorts.

His mouth fell open and his back arched.

Everyone in the grandstands probably couldn’t see where Valeria had put her hand—the angle was only right for some of us—but half the crowd went “ EWWWWWWWWW” and so many shrill whistles ripped through the air that my ears cringed.

Chester stood as if frozen.

I heard Rusty murmur, “Man, oh man.”

Lee grinned at him and patted his knee.

My mouth was dry, but I managed to say, “This guy has to be a ringer.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lee said.

I wondered how much time he had left. At least a couple of minutes must’ve gone by so far. If he really was a ringer, maybe the plan was to let him win.

Valeria pulled down the zipper of his shorts.

“Oh, great,” Lee grumbled. “You guys shouldn’t be…”

Valeria reached into Chester’s open fly.

“… seeing this.”

The reaction of the audience was a wild mixture of joy, consternation and excitement. Through all the hoots and whistles and applause, I heard shouts of, “No!” and “Go for it!” and “All right!” and “Someone put a stop to this!” and several suggestions that were extremely foul and vulgar.

Instead of doing what most of us probably expected, however, Valeria turned her hand upward and clutched Chester’s pants: not only the upper areas of the zipper, but apparently the waistband of his Bermudas and also his belt buckle. Then she hoisted him off his feet.

He squealed, flapped his arms and kicked.

With just her one arm, Valeria rammed him all the way up. Luckily (or due to plenty of rehearsals), his head missed the bars. It passed through a space between two of them and poked out the top of the cage. The bars stopped him at the shoulders.

Letting go of him, Valeria twirled out of the way.

Chester yelped and started to fall. Then suddenly he grabbed the bars. He pulled himself up until his head was again jutting out the top of the cage.

“Help!” he yelled.

Far as I could tell, nobody in the audience seemed very upset by his plight. A good many of us must’ve already suspected he was a ringer. And some of the audience, especially women, probably figured he was getting his just deserts.

There was nervous laughter—and cheering—when Valeria reached out with both hands and jerked his Bermudas down. For underwear, he wore baggy white boxer shorts decorated with red polka-dots.

This guy was definitely a ringer. His antics had been nothing but a stage performance.

I felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment.

Is it ALL fake?

Most likely, I thought.

Then Valeria jerked the boxers down to Chester’s ankles. From the waist down, he was naked.

She pulled the Bermudas and boxers down over his shoes and tossed them across the cage. Now Chester was dangling there in nothing but his polo shirt, knee socks and loafers. He had a skinny, pale butt. He also, much to the shock and delight and amusement and dismay of the spectators, had a boner.

It didn’t matter where you were sitting; the way he kicked and twisted, everyone in the bleachers got to see both sides of Chester.

I was suddenly very aware of why they tried to keep kids away from the show.

And I was suddenly embarrassed to be watching this with Lee sitting beside me. And glad that Slim had decided against coming.

Chester’s groin area was just about level with Valeria’s face.

She stepped up to him and opened her mouth.

Some people screamed. Including Chester. Others cried out “NO!” and “Oh, my God!” and a few suggestions such as “Bite it off!”

I figured the five minutes must be running out. Valeria had better do something fast or Chester would win the five hundred bucks.

She slowly leaned closer, her mouth wide open as if ready to take him in….

He squealed “No!” and kicked out, driving his right shoe into Valeria’s midsection. She grunted and stumbled back-Richard Laymon ward, bending over, hugging her belly. As she fell to the dirt, Chester let go of the bars and dropped.

Huffing for breath, he stared down at her. He was standing at her feet. Her legs were parted, her knees up. Chester seemed to be staring up her short leather skirt.

He swung around and looked toward the open door of the cage.

Thinking about it.

Wondering how much time he had left?

Or maybe no longer caring about the time or about the five hundred dollars or about anything other than what was sprawled on the ground behind him.

Pulling the polo shirt over his head, he whirled around. He flung the shirt away. Naked down to his knee socks, he dived for Valeria, arms extended, hands all set to grab her breasts. He would’ve landed between her knees in perfect position for thrusting into her body, but one of her feet shot up.

In an instant of silence, I heard the jingle of a spur.

Then Chester squealed. Braced up by Valeria’s right leg, he was thrown over her body. He flipped over in midair and landed on his back across her open casket.

He’d been split open from navel to sternum.

“Holy shit,” Rusty muttered.

Lee blinked, shook her head and said, “Maybe he’s not a ringer” as Valeria, down in the cage, buried her face in Chester’s bloody abdomen.

The black-shirted crew hustled into the cage and lifted Chester onto the gurney. As they rolled him away, Valeria took a wet towel from one of the helpers and started to wipe the blood off her body. Stryker spoke into the microphone. “LET’S HEAR IT FOR CHESTER, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! A REAL SCRAPPER!

Down beside him in the cage, Valeria raised her right leg and propped her boot on an edge of the coffin.

Bending down, she used the towel to wipe the blood off her spur. As she did that, I stared at the red mark across her back… the wound inflicted by Stryker’s spur.

Hers was just a scratch.

She’d really opened up Chester.

“AND HOW ABOUT THAT PHYSIQUE!” Stryker went on. “IF ANY OF YOU LADIES ARE INTERESTED, I’M SURE YOU’LL HAVE NO TROUBLE FINDING CHESTER LATER AT THE LOCAL EMERGENCY ROOM.”

Here and there, people were making their way down the bleachers. Mostly women. Several towed men along behind them.

Apparently, they’d had enough.

Ignoring the exodus, Stryker studied his stopwatch. “CHESTER LASTED A GRAND TOTAL OF FOUR MINUTES AND FORTY-THREE SECONDS. CAME UP ONLY SEVENTEEN SECONDS SHORT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.”

Vivian hurried over to Stryker and leaned in close to his side. As she started speaking into his ear, he lowered the microphone. Whatever she was telling him, we couldn’t hear it.

“Maybe we should be going, too,” Lee said.