David Ohle - The Devil in Kansas

Moe’s in his black pickup, his jaw set, teeth bared, still in his scorched safety gear. He drives like a bat out of hell. Lighting one cigarette from the stub of another, he grips the wheel, punches in radio stations — pork futures, weather news, religious spew. None of it satisfies him. He puts in a Black Sabbath tape, takes a Baretta 9mm from the glove compartment, sets it on the seat between his legs. “Tomorrow, one less killer bitch on the planet.”

In the rig’s cab, Joe plays “Old Man River” on the saw. Sherry listens, her hands clasped in her lap, thumbs twirling.

“You got anybody?” Kenny asks. “Husband? Boyfriend?”

Sherry shakes her head. “Not right now. You?” She messes with her bra, trying to position it better.

“This truck’s my only partner right now.”

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“Maybe.”

“A girl needs to ask these things sometimes. For her own good.”

“Go ahead.”

“Are you now, or have you ever been, queer? It’s hard to tell anymore.”

Kenny chuckles, “I’m a breeder all the way. I’d be happy to demonstrate.”

Sherry struggles with her bra. “This bra’s killing me.” She unhooks it and pulls it out from under her T-shirt. “I’m gonna have to charge, you know. We’re mostly broke.”

“How much?”

“Usually a hundred. But considering gas and all, seventy-five.”

Back to Moe, speeding down the highway, going at least a hundred, Metallica’s “Kill ‘Em All” at full volume. The pickup’s engine misfires on a couple of cylinders, blue smoke pours from the tailpipe.

With lightning streaking across the western sky, Kenny’s rig pulls off onto a desolate dirt road and stops. When the engine dies, Joe hops out, walks far out into the shrubland, sits on a rock and plays his saw in the storm-threatening darkness, while Kenny and Sherry get it on in the truck’s sleeper.

When they’re finished, Kenny steps out of the truck to piss. Joe approaches him. “What’s your name again?”

“Kenny.”

“Kenny. You’re a real motherfucker. I don’t like it. It makes me feed bad.”

“It was her call, man.”

“Don’t do it within a mile of me, okay? It hurts.”

“Okay, okay.” Kenny walks toward the cab. “Come on, let’s go. There’s bodies waiting for those coffins.” Joe falls in behind him. They get into the cab. Sherry is smoking a joint and sipping schnapps in the sleeper. Joe sits in the passenger’s seat. The rig rolls out onto the highway. Rain falls.

Joe suddenly groans, bends forward, holding his abdomen, and lets go a thunderous fart.

Sherry says, “Oh my Lord. Prepare for the worst.”

Kenny waves his hand in front of his face. “Jesus, that’s foul.” He cracks his window. Rain pours in. He closes it.

“It’s been this way since the surgery,” Joe says.

Sherry shakes her head. “He thinks the aliens took a bunch of his intestines.”

“They did, Mother, with no anesthetic.”

The 66 Diner. In the parking lot a neon sign blinks: The 66…Diner . The sign shorts out in the rain, leaving only the word “Diner” blinking.

There are no cars in the parking lot, no customers inside. A sleazy-looking fry cook cleans the griddle. A waitress finishes filling plastic ketchup bottles and salt shakers, then turns on a radio behind the checkout counter: “The National Weather Service at Topeka has issued a severe thunderstorm warning, and a tornado watch is in effect for the entire listening area. These storms contain lightning, hail, and damaging winds, with gusts to fifty miles an hour. Stay tuned to KJFK for further weather information. To repeat … the National Weather Service … ” She turns off the radio. “Let’s close up and go home.” She looks out the front window at the rain falling in sheets. “Shit. A truck’s pulling in.”

Kenny’s rig pulls up.

As Moe’s truck continues running roughly and spewing smoke, rain pours, treetops swirl in a strong wind. The only windshield wiper working is on the passenger’s side. Moe sits in the middle of the seat, trying to keep the road in sight. He turns on the radio: “The National Weather Service office in Topeka has issued a severe thunderstorm warning and a tornado watch is in effect until ten p.m. for the entire listening area. These storms contain lightning, hail and damaging winds, with gusts to fifty miles an hour. A funnel cone has been sighted three miles north of Wichita, Kansas.”

He squints to make out the diner sign, sees Kenny’s rig in the lot and slows down.

Inside, Kenny and Sherry sit in a booth looking at menus. Joe can be overheard in the nearby bathroom grunting and moaning, as if in pain.

Kenny says, “Maybe it’s his appendix. It could burst.”

“It’s all in his head. I asked him, I said, ‘All right, if they did surgery, if they took out some intestine, where’s the scar?’ He says they pulled them through his rectum. No scar that way. He says they also cut off one of his testicles. But he never would show me. Besides being a terrible liar, he’s a very modest boy.”

In the bathroom, Joe sits on a toilet in a stall, straining. From the next stall come strange, inhuman grunts, culminating in a loud splash and a hiss of steam. A white liquid runs along the floor into Joe’s stall. It looks like buttermilk with lumps and streaked with green mold.

Joe bolts from the stall, rushes into the dining area, slides into the booth, frightened, out of breath.

Sherry hugs him. “You okay, baby?”

“I’m scared. There’s an alien in the bathroom.”

“Now, honey, calm yourself down. Kenny, please go in there and come back and tell him there’s no alien in there.”

Kenny shrugs. “Sure. I gotta go anyway.”

In the men’s room, Kenny pisses in a urinal, then looks under the stall partitions. No one is there and the floor is clear.

At the booth. Joe looks out the window, sees Moe. “He’s baaaack.”

Moe slides the Baretta behind his belt buckle and slithers into the café. He sits in the booth opposite Joe and Sherry and removes his helmet.

Kenny arrives, stands near Sherry.

Moe says, “Who’s this asshole?”

“Kenny. He’s giving us a ride.”

Moe is on the verge of tears. “Lemme tell you something about love, Kenny. It hurts, like they say. She tried to burn me alive, this bitch did.”

“Get out of my life,” Sherry says.

“You fucked her yet, Kenny? She’ll fuck anything that moves.”

“Look, man….”

Moe, in tears, pulls the Baretta. “You ain’t leaving me! I don’t care what you done. You’re mine.”

Sherry takes Joe’s hand, attempts to exit the booth. “Let’s go, Kenny. He beats his women, but he don’t shoot them.”

Sherry and Joe ease their way out of the booth. Kenny slowly escorts them to the front door, dropping some money at the cash register. The waitress and fry cook stare at all this in disbelief.

Through the window, Moe watches Kenny’s rig pull into a stormy night. He points the barrel of the gun at his temple, straining mightily to summon the courage to pull the trigger, but just as he does, he ducks his head as the bullet is fired — into the back of the fry cook, who falls forward, plunging his head into the deep fryer with a horrible sizzle.

Moe puts on his helmet and makes for the door. To the frightened, sobbing waitress, he says, “Sorry. It was an accident.” As an afterthought, he removes all the cash from the register, then walks out.

Kenny’s rig, dawn. The storm has passed. Joe sleeps in the sleeper, Sherry nods in the passenger seat. Kenny puts his hand on her knee. “Talk to me. I’m getting sleepy.”

She wakes up. “Sure, okay, I’ll talk.”