Robert Coover - Origin of the Brunists

“Oh, really, Vince! You’re gittin’ silly!”

He could smell the damp fragrance of her bathed crotch. My God, what was she doing to him? “Wanda, please! Try to understand! Listen, I’m gonna be mayor here! Don’t that mean nothing to you?” Maybe he should just tumble her to the sack and lay her. He worked her robe apart with his nose, pressed his face against her white-pantied groin, felt the nylon whistle along his beard.

“Vince, don’t—!”

He laughed the old laugh. “The mayor, baby!” Got a wrist before she could get away.

“The baby’s watchin’!”

“That never stopped us—”

“No!”

Shoved her hard to the bed. Springs twanged. Caught the wide-eyed drool of the baby, staring over the side of the crib. Heard Davey. She hit out, but no life in it. They all want it. “Please, Wanda!” he whispered hoarsely, as he wallowed down over her. “Once more, Wanda! for old times! for the old mayor!” She turned her head, wouldn’t let him kiss her. He unbuckled his pants, fingers thick and fumbling, whipped the fly open, reared his rump up and shoved his pants and shorts to his knees. Couldn’t bother getting the pants off her. Slide in past the legband. She squirmed—

“Please!”

“Oh Wanda, you don’t know how you’re hurting me!”

“I love you!”

“One more for the old mayor!”

“The mayor, baby!”

Vince lurched up off the bed, tripped over his own pants, whammed to the floor on his hands and knees. Johnson, Ferrero, and Lucci stood in the doorway splitting their goddamn drunken guts with laughter. “You goddamn sonuvabitching cocksuckers!” screamed Vince. Pants all tangled up somehow. Baby howling like a maniac. Davey padding in. Wanted to take a swing, hit anybody. But Jesus, he realized he had nothing left in him and he was going blind to boot.

“Well, so this is how we talk to the spirits!” grinned Johnson. “Well, boys, I for one am goin’ to join this here religion!”

“I believe!” cried Georgie. Jesus, they could hardly stand.

“Now you two fellers take a restrainin’ grip on old Dad there, so’s he don’t break the spell,” Johnson said, then hiccupped, “and let’s see ifn I cain’t git a message through to the holy kingdom.”

Sal and Georgie rubberlegged over. Grabbed Vince unconvincingly just as he’d got his pants up. Georgie shoved his pants down to his ankles again. “Don’t want you running out on us again,” he said. Vince struggled, but just didn’t have any goddamn strength.

Johnson unzipped his fly and reeled forward. Wanda cowered pale against the head of the bed, clutching the robe tight around her neck, but showing a bright white glimpse of snatch. Wasn’t her fault, she was too scared to realize, but still it made Vince mad, showing what she had like that. Lights were still screwed up. And he couldn’t sort the noises. Like a fucking circus or something. Watched the scene, but had to think about it to be sure he was seeing it. Was Johnson into her? No, he was still standing there, showing off his instrument, pulling out his shirt, and hiccupping. “Le’s git the Comin’ on the road!” he was saying to Wanda.

“Please!” she whispered. “Go away!” She was scared. Vince couldn’t see her good, but he knew, could tell. The poor kid. “Davey! don’t look! Go to your room!”

“You let go, Sal, old buddy,” Vince whispered between his teeth, “or I’ll rebust that arm of yours so they’ll never get it fixed again!” Sal relaxed his grip. Vince stepped out of one pant leg, spun, tempted to bust Georgie’s nuts, but, pitying him standing there so blearily innocent, he only threw a right to the gut. Georgie whined and doubled, and Vince popped him hard as he could on the back of the neck, sent him — grateful maybe — to the floor. Johnson faced around just as Vince reached him, one leg dragging his pants on the floor, but the dumb bastard made the mistake of trying to close his fly first and caught Vince’s full-bodied right square in his silly mouth. His head shot back like it was snapped and he crashed against the wall, brought down the endtable and bedlamp. Lights and shadows flew every which way, like suddenly there was a hundred people in there running around. Tried to think how to follow up. Reached for his own pants. Wanda was gone, that quick. Heard her grab up the phone in the hall. Johnson pushed confusedly up off the floor, wheeled forward, pitched himself on Vince more like a lover than a foe, and they tumbled like potato bags to the floor. Johnson kneed him in the stomach. Vince struggled. If only he could get room to swing. For a minute he thought, Aw, to hell with it. Bad dream. Wake up. Johnson was pummeling him with short weak blows to the midriff, but they felt a great distance off. They rolled and pitched drearily on the floor. Nobody seemed to get ahead.

“Vince baby,” Johnson gasped, “you’ll git slivers in your ass!” That lamebrain was grinning even with blood smeared all over his knobby mug — must have really opened something up with that right.

Bonali raised his hips up fast and sudden, hardly thinking about it, surprising even himself, drove Johnson off-balance headfirst into the wall, slid out fast from under the bastard and slugged him with all his might behind the ear, in the face, wherever he could make it land. He stood up, gasping for breath. Room still whipping around there, wilder than ever. “Johnson!” Coughing, could hardly breathe. Johnson out dead. “You always talk too much for your own fucking good!” Reached down, pulled up his shorts. His balls hurt him and he tried to see if they’d got busted or something.

“Police are on the way,” Wanda said, watching him coldly from the doorway, dressed now in slacks and sweater, baby in her arms, holding Davey’s hand.

Georgie was still groveling on the floor, holding his belly, whimpering, “Muh-donna!”

Sal was standing like a specter against the wall. Going green. “Sal, you better bug out, buddy,” Vince gasped. “I’ll be right behind.” Sal was gone like a shot. Vince untwisted his pants, they were a goddamn mess, hauled them up, felt the pockets: billfold gone! Jesus, they could pin him with that! “Wanda, listen, if the cops get here before I get away, you tell them these two bastards came first, and I followed them and tried to protect you, you hear?” But he saw no response there. Searched for the billfold. Sense of not moving fast enough, limbs heavy, head — found it under the goddamn bed. Crawled under, bed above him winding like a fucking carousel, he was sweating to beat hell, and the dust under here was sticking to him. He spat, reached for the billfold — move, Dad! — had his ass out when Dee Romano and old Willie walked in, pistols cocked.

“Landsakes!” exclaimed Willie through his whistling false teeth. “Looks like they’s been some party!”

Wanda stood wan and martyred with her kids. Vince tried to get her eye. Georgie squinted blearily up at Dee and Willie from the floor, as though trying to figure out who the hell they could be.

“What happened, Mrs. Cravens?” Romano asked. Kept his great big gun out, very edgy, finger on the goddamn trigger.

“Well, these guys—” Vince began, getting to his feet, but Romano waved his pistol at him menacingly.

“These here men come in drunk, just bustin’ in, got in a awful fight,” said Wanda dully. “They was another one, but he run off.”

“Musta been that body we passed,” Willie remarked.

“Yeah,” said Dee.

“What’d they come for?” drawled Willie.

Romano grinned sarcastically and pointed with his gun down at Johnson, just beginning to stir: Johnson’s prick was lolling limp outside his fly.