David Ohle - The Devil in Kansas

A huge swarm of man-sized grasshoppers passes overhead. Their mechanical wing-beats, in perfect unison, sound like rusty gates. “What are those?” Sherry asks.

Kenny and Sherry shade their eyes and look skyward as the flock’s shadow envelops them.

Joe yells, “Don’t look up!” He crouches, pulling Sherry down with him. The lit joint flies from her hands and lands in the dry grass near the road.

A heavy rain of grasshopper shit and piss pelts them in acidic drops. These drops scorch clothing and sting when they land on flesh. Kenny takes a full dose in the eyes.

He kneels, hands cupped over his eyes. “Jesus! H! Fucking Christ! I can’t see!”

A wheat field near a highway. The joint has ignited some grass. Flames quickly spread to the field of ripening wheat.

Fade to the same highway, farther on and later. Kenny has a bandana tied over his eyes. Joe has one dangling from his mouth. Sherry holds Kenny’s hand to guide him.

The wheat fields burn behind them. They haven’t noticed.

Kenny’s eyes smart and burn. “My fucking eyes are on fire!”

Sherry changes the subject. “What were those things? Geese?”

Joe shakes his head. “You wish. It’s the big green ones. They’re swarming.”

“Oh, Joe. Come on, we’re lost, and Kenny’s eyes are shot. Make some sense for a change.”

Joe looks around at the strange landscape. “We’re not lost. Don’t you get it?”

Sherry also looks around. “Get what?”

“We just got abducted.”

“To Kansas?”

“Not the same one. This is a really, really different one.”

They come to a road sign: WITCHY TOE — 6 KLICKS

Sherry cocks her head like a dog listening to commands. “Witchy Toe?”

“They got funny names for things over here. Witchy Toe. That’s where we register. I’m remembering now. There’s a reception area. We have to register and fill out some forms. Then they give us some tests.”

Sherry slides a stick of gum into her mouth, then another. “You’re scaring me. Stop it.”

Eight plumes of black smoke rise from tall smokestacks in the distance and a brown fog shrouds the outline of a small city. The sun sets in the east. A gibbous moon rises in the south. The air cools precipitously and a chill wind blows. In the background wheat fields burn.

Joe smiles, enjoying his tour guide role. “There’s Witchy Toe.”

A metal building on the outskirts of Witchy Toe. The DeLorean is the only car in a vast parking lot. Dripping sweat, Sherry, Joe and the blindfolded Kenny enter. Just inside the door and through a turnstile, a mechanical alien turns a crank, which drives a leather belt that spins the blades of eight ceiling fans. From the alien’s ass comes a plastic square with a number on it.

Joe takes the number. “We take a number now.”

Sherry takes the next number from the alien’s ass, then another for Kenny. “I don’t believe this, Kenny.”

“Where the fuck are we?”

“I’m not sure,” Joe says, “but once you get here you don’t remember much about back there. And when you get back there, you don’t remember much about here. It’s coming back. I know what’s happening.”

A dozen or so other new arrivals sit on uncomfortable metal benches, waiting. They seem dazed and confused.

At one end of the building are eight curtained booths, similar to arcade photo booths. When a booth is empty, a number flashes on a lighted panel above it.

Sherry sits Kenny down on a bench. “Let’s take that bandana off and look at your eyes.”

She removes the bandana. Kenny’s eyes are extremely bloodshot. He blinks and squints. “I can see a little. Not a lot.”

A new arrival exits a booth and the number thirteen flashes.

Joe says, “That’s me.” He enters the booth and closes the curtain.

The only light in the booth is from a small display screen. Behind a circular port covered with an opaque material, an alien head can be discerned. Its buzzing is audible.

Two other wall-ports allow the alien’s hands to extend into the booth. For now, they are retracted.

The word Deglove appears on the display screen.

Joe doesn’t understand. “I’ve been here before but I forgot what that means.”

The alien’s hands emerge from their ports. They are thorny and scaled, with six long, bony fingers and two fat thumbs on each hand. With amazing deftness, the hands unbuckle Joe’s belt and pull his jeans down to his knees.

Now Joe remembers. “Oh, right. Take your drawers down.”

The word Frontal appears on the screen. Joe looks upward. Pleasure alternating with pain show on his face as alien hands manipulate his penis. His expression is pure pleasure as he ejaculates into a little metal container.

The alien hands withdraw through their ports, one holding the semen specimen.

The word Rectal appears on the screen.

Joe turns around and bends over. His expression is not a happy one. He winces when the alien’s flat, wooden probe is inserted, and again when it is withdrawn.

In the bench area, Sherry and Kenny wait. A few other new arrivals enter, take their numbers and find seats.

Kenny rubs his eyes. Sherry looks up at the fans, listening to the squeak and pop of the long leather belt. Thus distracted, they don’t recognize Moe among the arrivals. He’s still in the lounge lizard’s suit, though it is soiled, and he looks as dazed as the others.

The alien stops cranking, the fans stop working. All is quiet. Immediately the heat level skyrockets. Those waiting sweat profusely.

When Joe exits the booth, the light flashes fourteen.

When the next booth opens up, the number fifteen flashes.

Joe says, “Fourteen. That’s you, Mother. Kenny’s fifteen.”

Kenny has to bend over and look closely at the ground to see where he’s going. “What happens in there, Joe?”

“It doesn’t hurt that bad. Go on, get it over with.”

Kenny and Sherry enter their respective booths.

Joe sticks a fresh handkerchief into his mouth and plays something somber on the saw.

A bus stop on a highway. The sign says Bus Stop — Line Forms Here . A queue of new arrivals waits, Joe, Sherry and Kenny at the head of the line, Moe near the end. Kenny rubs his rear and grimaces. Sherry is flush-faced, looking contented.

Joe asks her if she’s okay.

Sherry beams, “I’m fine. It wasn’t bad at all.”

Kenny says, “They left a fucking splinter in my ass.”

Joe steps out of line and looks down the highway. “The bus is coming.”

What at first appears to be a dilapidated city bus glides to a stop. Rather than the sound of an engine, there’s the clankety-clank of a steel drive-chain under the chassis while passengers huff and puff through the open windows. In front of every seat is a set of strap-on pedals. Already on-board are three pickup loads of Mexican illegals, poker-faced and tired of pedaling. The driver, in a grey wool uniform, looks somewhat cadaverous.

New arrivals begin boarding. Sherry and Kenny seem confused. Joe takes a seat, buckles his seat belt and straps his feet to the pedals. “Do what I’m doing. Hurry up. Don’t attract attention. Take a seat, strap in.”

Kenny and Sherry strap themselves in place.

The driver calls out hoarsely, “Everybody in? Let’s go. I’m running late.” He closes the door.

Joe says, “Start pedaling.”

All passengers pedal. Slowly the bus gains momentum and moves forward.

An hour or two later, the pedaling passengers huff, puff and gasp for air.

Kenny feels his sore bottom as he looks around at the familiar Mexican faces. “Man, I’m hurting. I think it’s getting infected.”

“My legs are killing me,” Sherry says.