Ryan Harding - Genital Grinder

He thrust his hands in his pockets and began shuffling over to his car, singing an old Doors song, “Strange Days,” to himself. He threw a cursory glance around the lot. The other stores in the shopping center closed up at 9:00. There was just one other car in the lot besides Carrie’s, and unfortunately for her it was his.

Her hood popped up, and Carrie reluctantly slid out of her car, looking at Gabriel out of the corner of her eye. He knew what was going to happen now; what had to happen.

“Don’t start with me,” she warned as he closed in. “Just please tell me you know something about cars.”

“Naturally,” he said. He couldn’t so much as replenish windshield wiper fluid; that’s what his dad was for. He smiled at Carrie disarmingly, idly wondering if the patron from yesterday really planned to watch The Ten Commandments .

Carrie adjusted the stand to keep the hood propped, thus eclipsing the extent of Gabriel’s automotive know-how.

“Any idea what’s wrong?” he asked, trying not to laugh.

“I wouldn’t ask for your help if I did,” she answered in singsong.

“Well, I’m a Samaritan. I’d have helped anyway.” He leaned under the hood, feeling her spiteful look. He yanked something at random, and was rewarded when it slid out. “Hey, I might have found something. This thing here is loose.” He held it up for her inspection.

Carrie sighed with a bonus eye roll, even though Renee wasn’t around to enjoy it. “That thing tells how much oil is in the car.” She snatched it away from him and guided it back into its proper place, mouthing a stream of obscenities which he gathered weren’t in high praise of his character.

She hunched forward, brushing her fingers with her thumbs to wipe off grease. Gabriel enjoyed the rear view as he cracked his knuckles.

“You should have called Triple A,” he said, too quietly for her to hear.

“Hey,” Carrie said excitedly. “This wire isn’t—”

He smashed the safety bar with the palm of his hand, dislodging it. The hood slumped down, striking Carrie across the back. It wasn’t much, just enough to stun her. It was all he needed. He hoisted the hood up and slammed it back down, increasing his momentum by jumping. She sank to her knees. She made an effort to slide out of harm’s way, but he blocked her off and reaped some well-earned frottage as he delivered six more compacting blows in rapid succession The last few came down on the back of her neck, eliciting tiny pops as vertebrae cracked.

As the script called for, Gabriel took a few steps back and observed the scene. Carrie was sprawled in front of the car now, arms jutting out like broken wings. Motionless.

Gabriel looked back at Movie Heaven. He thought he saw a red light in the darkness, like the one which glowed on his father’s video camera when it recorded. He couldn’t see clearly, but he didn’t have to. The article in the paper this morning had told him what was going on, the simple headline reading BARTOK WOMAN KILLED IN RABID DOG ATTACK.

Seven simple words, all it took to make him see what was written . . . and what was prophesied.

IX.

The emissary of visions unclaimed found him again—the hapless individual at 37th and Garren. About to return to the wife and kids, maybe, or at least thinking he was. Not paying much attention to Gabriel, or the strange way he hunched over to obscure the shotgun as Gabriel stepped out of the car.

“Are you ready to do your magic?” he asked, approaching the man. He stopped five feet away from him.

And waited for him to blink.

Part 1: Genital Finder

The Electra Complex was a beacon for the lost souls who had nothing better to do on a Saturday night than have the same tits from last weekend thrust in their faces.

Some souls were more lost than others, which is where Von and Greg came in. They were no strangers to the nudie bar circuit. In a couple dives they were known well enough to elicit a greeting like Norm’s from Cheers . The Electra Complex, however, was not one of them.

“I’m sure glad we ain’t actually paying ten to get in,” Greg said.

Von concurred. “I’m all for full nudity, but it ain’t nothing I couldn’t see from my own mother. And hell, it don’t cost me near as much.”

Greg seemed distressed by this. “You get some kind of discount being blood-related or something? I’m out an Abe Lincoln and a couple Washingtons every time.”

Von laughed. “You’re getting your ass burned, son. I was in it for nine months and it didn’t cost me a dime. The milk was free after that, too. For awhile.”

Greg was not Von’s “son.” It was merely a colloquialism they had cultivated over the years.

“Hell, though,” Von continued, “it won’t put you on welfare to spend ten to look at some titties now and again. Safer, too. Ma’s retirement home is getting suspicious.”

To sit here and complain about paying ten bucks to see naked women when they were going to be millionaires before the night was over was absurd. Every slut had a price, and they’d be able to afford it. They wouldn’t have to slum anymore. There’d be no daring sieges on the dumpster behind the gynecological clinic, sifting for used sanitary napkins and sniffing the fingers of discarded rubber gloves. Finding out the clinic didn’t properly dispose of hazardous waste was among the five luckiest things to ever to happen to them. Scoring above that landmark occasion was the miraculous rumor of a doctor’s visit by a certain red-headed TV star who often investigated crimes with paranormal circumstances. Von and Greg kept every single pair of gloves and each blood-soaked tampon they found that night. They pored over them at least bi-weekly, wondering if this or that had come from within the gilded snatch. They’d wrung every last drop of juice form the tampons into a beer mug and traded swigs. The rumor had never been confirmed, but on still nights where a sudden breeze ruffled the tree branches and the tall grass of an open field, Von always believed that yes, it had really been her quim.

The side door of the Electra Complex sprang open. Angelique emerged at 9:35 for a smoke, par for the course when she was on backroom suck detail. She wore what counted as her costume—a white, easily removable shift. She kept a bare foot wedged in the door so it wouldn’t shut; the door locked automatically.

“Showtime,” Von announced. He and Greg stepped out of Greg’s Nova. Through the crack in the door, they could faintly hear an old Celtic Frost song: “Return to the Eve.”

Angelique had the bored detachment perfected by all veteran strippers, and she looked even less pleased to have visitors. It didn’t detract too much from her beauty, though. Gentleman might prefer blonds, but there weren’t many gentleman in a place like this, and her black hair was duly worshipped.

“We were hoping you could settle a bet between us,” Von began.

The smile faltered on Greg’s face. “We were?”

Von shot him an irritated look and prepared to continue his ploy. He surreptitiously craned his head around, searching for any stragglers in the parking lot. It was early in the evening, and the major activity wouldn’t start for another couple hours. It wasn’t a good idea to go to a strip show when the doors opened; by midnight you’d see your whole paycheck fluttering in some Jezebel’s g-string.

Angelique waited, taking another drag on her cigarette.

“We wanted to know if you could smoke that cigarette with . . . well, what a learned man would call your ‘netherlips.’” Von glanced at his friend. “Ain’t that right, Greg?”