Lustmord: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher: Lustmord: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher, #2

By Kirk Alex

"Great book. Dark–yes. Grotesque–certainly. Sexually explicit–without a doubt. And the writing is excellent. Character & dialogue, is as real as it gets. A terrifying, non-putdownable horror." –Jeff Bennington, K/Book Review

“LUSTMORD: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher / Book Two (of Two)

His victims’ agony is still his sadistic ecstasy in this spine-tingling conclusion!
 
The bodies are piling up, but in Bishop Cecil O. Biggs’s twisted mind, the body count is still lacking. Even with all the victims dangling from meat hooks in his basement and cadavers rotting in his lair of carnal depravity, the Sinister Minister’s craving for blood and human flesh remains unquenched.
 
Desperate to leave behind a legacy as the most notorious sex slayer in the state of California, Biggs stalks San Fernando Valley strip joints and LA hooker hotspots in search of potential victims in a van he has christened the Meat Wagon. He likes to lure unsuspecting prey into his dark world by resorting to whatever means possible: drugs, booze, cash, or trickery.
 
But now the stench of death billowing from his cellar furnace is starting to arouse suspicion, which might ultimately hinder his grisly exploits. And when this remorseless sociopath’s neighbors become concerned, and the families and friends of the missing young men and women unite to converge on this house of horrors, it might finally put an end to Biggs’s sadistic sexual rituals. But not if he can prevent it. . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tucumcari Press
• Release date: Jun 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9780939122202

Kirk Alex

Instead of boring you with a bunch of dull background info, how about if I mention a few films/singers/musicians and books/authors I have enjoyed over the years.Am an Elvis Presley fan from way back. Always liked James Brown, Motown, Carmen McRae, Eva Cassidy, Meat Loaf, Booker T. & the MGs, CCR. Doors are also a favorite.Some novels that rate high on my list: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole; Hunger by Knut Hamsun; Street Players by Donald Goines (a street noir masterpiece, a work of art, & other novels by the late awesome Goines); If He Hollers Let Him Go by the incredible Chester Himes. (Note: Himes at his best was as good as Hemingway at his best. But of course, due to racism in the great US of A, he was given short-shrift. Had to move to France to be treated with respect. Kind of sad.Am white by the way, but injustice is injustice & I feel a need to point it out. There were so many geniuses of color who were mistreated and taken advantage of. Breaks your effing heart. I have done what I have been able to support talent (no matter what the artists skin color was/is) over the years by purchasing records & books by talented folks, be they white/black/Hispanic/Asian, whatever. Like I said: Talent is talent, is the way I have always felt. The arts (in all their forms) keep us as humans civilized, hopefully). Anyway, I need to get off the soap box.Most of the novels by Mark SaFranko (like Lounge Lizard and Hating Olivia; his God Bless America is one of the best memoirs I have ever read, up there with Ham on Rye by Buk);The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway; A Farewell to Arms also by Ernie; Mooch by Dan Fante (& other novels of his); Post Office by Charles Bukowski; The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath; the great plays of Eugene O., like Iceman Cometh, Long Days––this system has a problem with the apostrophe, so will leave it out––Journey Into Night, Touch of the Poet; Journey to the End of the Night by Ferdinand Celine (not to be confused by the Eugene O. play); Postman Only Rings Twice by James M. Cain; the factory crime novels of Derek Raymond (superior to the overrated Raymond Chandler & his tiresome similes & metaphors any day of the week; Jack Ketchum; Edgar Allan Poe; The Reader by Bernhard Schlink; Nobody/s Angel by Jack Clark; The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester, et al.Filmmakers: Akira Kurosawa (Ihiru; Yojimbo); John Ford (almost anything by him); horror flicks: Maniac by William Lustig and Joe Spinnell; original Night of the Living Dead; original Texas Chainsaw Massacre; original When a Stranger Calls; The 400 Blows by Francois T.; the thrillers of Claude Chabrol; A Man Escaped by Bresson; the Japanese Zatoichi films;Tokyo Story by Ozu . . . and many other books, films and jazz musicians like the amazing tenor sax player Gene Ammons; Sonny Rollins, Chet Baker, Jack Sheldon, Stan Getz, Paul Desmond; singers like the incomparable Sarah Vaughan, Shirley Horn, Dion Warwick; Al Green, Elmore James, Lightnin Hopkins . . . to give you some idea.However, these days though, tv does not exist at all for me, nor do I care for most movies, in that I would much rather pick up a well-written book. I get more of a kick from reading than I do watching some actor pretend to be something he is not.Having said that, I confess that as a young man I did my share of wasting time watching the idiot box and spent my share of money going to the flicks. But those days are long gone, in that there is no interest in movies (be they cranked out by the Hollywood machine, or elsewhere).Final conclusion when it comes to celluloid? Movies are nothing more than a big waste of time (no matter who makes them). Reading feeds the brain, while movies puts the brain to sleep. There it is.

Book preview

(Chapter numbers continued

from previous volume)

CHAPTER 253

Sunday, Noon

Fay Crust took great care to place the presently cool enough fruitcake, that she had gotten up early that morning to bake especially for the parish next door, into the pink pastry box. This was a special occasion, as far as she was concerned. She had discovered a United Christian Church of Re-Newed Hope flyer in her mailbox earlier in the week and felt it was clearly an invitation to her and her husband to visit Bishop Biggs and his people next door and participate in this Sunday’s gathering. Harold hadn’t been exactly excited at the prospect, true enough, but she had been to the point she was able to convince him to go along.

Fay was checking her hair in the bathroom mirror, while Harold stood in the living room, not a willing participant in this venture at all. He was dressed accordingly for it, willing or not: brown sport coat, tan dress slacks, white shirt, tie, shiny brown wingtip shoes that complemented his attire.

I’m still not sure why we’re doing this, Fay. Her husband made sure he spoke loud enough for her to hear wherever she happened to be now. The yellow flyer the invitation was printed on was on the coffee table before him, not that the piece of paper made him feel any better about the whole thing.

I can think of one very good reason. Fay appeared in the kitchen. She was fussing with her clip-on earrings. Then stopped to fiddle with the pearl necklace. They weren’t real pearls, of course, but were nice enough anyway. She looked smart in a tan jacket and skirt, beige heels. Those heels made her a head taller than her husband, easy. Some men would have been put off by it. Not Harold. Was secure enough in who he was and had always been attracted to tall women, big women. The taller the better. She always liked to dress up, too. Women were like that. That was the part he didn’t get. With him it was just the other way around. Did it when he had to. If it made her feel good. What other reason was there? It was called a church. House next door was. You dressed up for church—whether it was legitimate or not. For the woman’s sake.

"It’s an opportunity to get to know the bishop, get to know his people and the congregation. We have a church right next door to us that I can walk to and won’t have to beg you to drive me to our regular church for Sunday service and Bible study."

That ain’t gospel music that man usually plays over there. You forget the times we complained to the rollers because of the way the man carries on? Ain’t the behavior of a God-fearing preacher, if you ask me. You tried to get in before. Man told you same thing he told Roscoe: Ain’t taking in new members. I don’t know why we even got this flyer now. Don’t seem he likes his neighbors much. Always suspicious. Says it right there: suspicious. It don’t seem to me you’d go for the man’s church. Seems to have his own idea of God and worship.

Oh, Harold.

I take you to church every Sunday, Fay. Was ready to take you this morning, too, only you kept insisting on going next door.

You’re absolutely right, Harold. Ever since your surgery you have been nicer about it. And I can recall all those years when I had to practically plead with you to drive me to church.

All right. Forget it. Let’s just go, please. I still say if Marty Roscoe and his wife are so nosy that they got to know what the inside of that man’s house looks like they should do it themselves.

I don’t imagine they get along too well with Bishop Biggs on account of the problem with the dogs going on his property. Can you blame the man for not liking it?

Harold did not answer. Could not care less what Cecil Biggs liked or didn’t like. He picked up his wife’s Bible, walked outside and waited on their front porch.

Biggs’s gate was unlocked and open for those miserable few souls in the area who were permitted to go inside, who were desperate enough to turn to someone as odd as Cecil Omar Biggs for inspiration and worship. Harold was shaking his head. The man probably hated his guts because of the complaints he and his wife had made in the past, and now they were about to go calling, thanks in part to Marty Roscoe and his nutty wife. He never should have said a word about it to Fay, only it was past that; besides, the damn flyer had made it impossible for her to resist. There was no talking her out of it now. Follow through. Get it over with. Do something to please the woman; and he knew these little things that he did for her hardly made up for all the years she’d taken care of him and put up with his craziness, all the years she’d been a devoted wife and partner. The Better Half. She truly was that.

CHAPTER 254

Harold walked to the sidewalk. Called his wife. Fay eventually stepped out with cake in hand, the flyer Scotch-taped to the top of the pink box. Lordy, thought Harold. Lordy Lordy Lordy.

They walked to Biggs’s front yard. Made it through the open gate.

Ain’t that the truth?

What’s that, Fay?

Mrs. Crust indicated Biggs’s billboard. White letters on black background. Something about gossip being like a balloon, in that it had a way of growing with every puff.

Yeah, well, thought Harold. Like all them other sayings: it don’t amount to much. Sure, the words rang true. What if they did? Everybody had something slick to say these days, only they never had the character to live up to their clever slogans. Brain farts. All they was. Hell with it.

They made it to Biggs’s front door. Strains of Amazing Grace, coming from somewhere above, as played on an organ by unsteady hands, could be picked up.

Harold knocked. Kept knocking. Until Marvin R. Muck’s bandaged nose and bruised, bloodshot eyes appeared in the four-by-ten-inch slot in the door. He cased them over. Eyed the pink cake box in Fay Crust’s hands.

Yeah?

"What chu mean ‘Yeah?’"

What I said, old dude: Yeah. Jus’ ’cause you a senile citizen, don’t mean you got to act like one.

Fay Crust nudged her husband. Cleared her throat, as did Harold then.

Just a neighborly visit from a couple of ‘Senile Citizens.’ Me and the missus would like to say hello to His Highness, the Bishop.

That right? Unless you invite’, you can’t get in. Security be the reason. Some crazy mofo out there be wantin’ to pop Cecil. That be from the donkey’ own mouf. If you ain’t got invite by Bishop Bigg’—you ain’t gettin’ in. Got to have a pure heart, got to be a true believer—and Bishop be the onliest judge of that.

I can dig it.

Harold Crust took his wife by the elbow, eager to leave. Fay Crust was not going anywhere. Held up the box the cake was in. Leaflet taped to it.

"But we were invited. I baked this cake especially for the Bishop. Won’t you be so kind as to let him know that we’re here at least and would like to see him?"

"Best not be no ‘Baby Ruth’ in that pink box."

I beg your pardon, young man?

You ain’t got to play no game wiff us. We know what be goin’ down these day’.

Expected as much from the lowlife.

Who you callin’ ‘lowlife, nigga?’

If the shoe fits.

What if it don’t?

Please, Harold.

"Redneck be the one, then. Left a paper bag by this here door wiff a big turd in it. Bishop don’t want nothin’ to do wiff the racist cracker and the dude be actin’ nasty about it. Mofo be jealous, is what. Why I be akskin’ what you got in the pink box."

Like I said, you’re talking out both sides of your mouth, buddy. Let’s go, Fay. Please. We don’t need this.

Harold, no. My mind is made up.

"All you got to do is aks Omar. Aks the Bishop, if you think I be jivin’. Roscoe be the one doin’ all kinda crazy ass shit like that. Makin’ obscene phone call’ and leavin’ turd’ for us to step in. Dude ain’t right. Wilburn Flinger be the other one: givin’ peep’ the finger all the time."

There was no hiding the fact Fay Crust was put off. Sir, your language.

Harold was irked as much, if not more so. His lady deserved better. Lowlife was behaving like a punk if front of his missus.

You ain’t got to disrespect folks that way. Ain’t no call for it.

Marvin cleared his throat. At a loss, if briefly.

What kind of cake you got there, man?

Home-baked fruitcake.

Home-bake’? Lemme talk to Brotha Trusty, then. See what the man say. He the one call’ the shot’. Wait right there. Don’t go nowheres.

CHAPTER 255

Marvin slapped the slot shut. Knocked on the door to the living room. Got the go-ahead to enter, and did.

There was a dresser with a mirror to the left of where Marvin stood. It was similar to the one Biggs had in his bedroom—in that it was battered and hopeless, just as all the furniture was in the United Christian Church of Re-Newed Hope.

Biggs was standing in front of the mirror in his long, Rasputin the Mad Monk robe and he was carefully running a plastic comb through his hair.

There was no ignoring that more and more silver strands had begun to appear at both temples and chin. His hair was thinning up around the crown.

He found a hand mirror inside the dresser. Held it in back of his head over the area. He’d been in denial about it for months. Now there was nothing to do but come to terms with it. Accept it. Hair was thinning and further reminded him that the bar code was a little more visible this time, the bar code tattoo and the digits directly below it, apropos of something he was presently not prepared to consider.

Maybe it was time to start dying his hair, or else cut it all off like he used to do. Save coin that way, to use Marvin’s expression.

Would be able to stay out of barber shops and not have to deal with the mindless chatter and inquiries regarding his life and business, regarding his Caddy or Rolls and what he did for a living.

Only drawback: a shaved skull tended to scare some of the bitches right off, before he’d even had a chance to so much as utter a single word to them—about anything. Also, there was that crater in his forehead—and the best way to compensate for it was with hair, or else go with headgear: cap or biretta, although a cap was not always admissible or even possible, depended on the situation, and the biretta did not always work as well as he wished.

Biggs placed the second-hand biretta he’d picked up for a buck-fifty at a Saugus swap meet a while back atop his head.

Made him look like the real thing. Official. A Bishop should look like one. Best dollar-fifty he’d ever spent.

What was all the chatter out there?

Muck let him know about the fruitcake and who was at their front door.

Oh yeah?

Made sure there was no turd in the pink box, me.

Biggs response was something close to a frown, but not quite.

"Wouldn’t want them senile fool’ in here anyway. ’Cause you know all they be doin’ is snoopin’, like them dirty Roscoe K-9 and ‘Finger-Lickin’ Flinger, ‘specially that four-eye’ cake-bakin’ ugly old ho Fay. Bet you anything Redneck Romeo an’ that big culo pig of his put them up to it. Bet my last damn dollar, too, if I had me a dollar to bet wiff."

I’ll have to have my hair trimmed. Continuing to employ the mirror, Biggs made minor, but valid adjustments with the biretta. Or just shave my head, save a few bucks.

They waitin’.

You said something about a fruitcake.

Baked it herself. Fay did.

Fruitcake?

What they said.

People like to badmouth fruitcake. I never have. In fact, I like it. I like fruitcake, so long as they’re not implying anything by it.

How you mean?

Our food taster would like to take a look at this cake before we can allow them entry. That’s what you tell them.

Say what?

Without offending them, if you can manage. Bring the cake in here.

What if they don’t be likin’ it and don’t want to part wiff the fruitcake?

Fuck them, then.

CHAPTER 256

Muck left. Was back shortly, with the fruitcake in his hands. Biggs placed it in the mini fridge, and stepped into the hallway.

Let the good people in, why don’t you, Brother Marvin. After all, we did invite them. Have them come upstairs. Let’s show them that not only is there an actual congregation and that this is a place of worship, but that we have a board of trustees, even a staff.

Board of trustee’? Marvin followed him into the hallway. You serious? I don’t be gettin’ it, man,

It’s good PR, Free Ride. Biggs locked the door to the living room behind him. What’s the point in sending out flyers to potentially interested parties if we refuse them entry when they appear at our doorstep?

Don’t be my idea to give ’em flyer. They ain’t nothin’ but snooper’. Spreadin’ gossip. Like everybody else.

Biggs paused in the foyer area at the door that led to stairs to the second floor. Then had a second thought. Decided, instead, to use the door at the other end of the hallway.

Give me enough time to get up there.

Marvin continued to stare at him with a quizzical expression. As far as he was concerned, Crusts was bein’ nosy, period. Nothin’ else to it.

Biggs grinned. It will help dispel some of the rumors. Let them take a look. After all, this is supposed to be a church, is it not? Let them in. We have no fear, do we?

Muck’s response was to shrug. Wasn’t sure.

Your show. All I be is stage manager.

Biggs walked to the opposite end of the hallway. Unlocked a door across the way from the kitchen, entered, and locked it after him. Marvin stepped up to the front entrance and undid the latch. Opened the door, and Mr. and Mrs. Crust stepped in.

CHAPTER 257

As Marvin R. Muck led them up the stairwell to the second floor, past coins and folding money that lined the walls and ceiling, a sign declaring THE LORD PROVIDES, another encouraging to ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE, the organ music faded and Biggs’s own booming voice could be heard coming from the Prayer Hall.

Where am I to get meat to give to all these people? For they weep before me, saying ‘Give us meat that we may eat!’

He paused. Cleared his throat.

The deacon guided the dumbfounded Crusts inside the room nearly crowded with staff and members of the board, as well as a small group of parishioners in clothes well worn and ill fitting. Crutches were in evidence, a quad cane, walker. Several shaved heads with various tats of swastikas or crucifixes or both. Some audience members were in their late teens, others middle-aged. There were a couple of bag ladies and alkies in their seventies with half-open eyes and spittle in the corners of their hanging jaws. They sat in folding chairs and an assortment of patio or porch benches. Some made of wood, others plastic or wrought iron, lined up in rows like pews.

Harold and his wife took it in. Stood there in shock, as their nervous eyes shifted over to what passed for the altar. There was a battered organ and a withered old woman who dozed in a wheelchair, head hung back, with drool oozing from the agape mouth. Various rag dolls stained with grime and what appeared to be dry red paint or something else dangled from the backrest.

They could not help noticing the lectern, or what passed for one: three weather-beaten fruit or vegetable crates stacked length-wise, one on top of the other. What evidently held it all together were a couple of pickets with cracked and peeling gray paint, ages old, and crudely fashioned into a cross.

Lying on its side on the dais to the right of the ridiculous crates, was something that somewhat resembled an actual lectern. This, too, appeared having been built, or in the process of being built, from mismatched old boards.

The scene made little sense to them. Beside the unfinished lectern lying on the floor, were a couple of sawhorses with planks laid across. Beyond that, in back of where Biggs stood, that stretched from floor to ceiling, was a large cross made from four by fours. This, too, was time-worn, warped, having been sloppily varnished and/or painted over bent nails and knots. Not only was the crucifix way too small for the imposing cross it was attached to, but chipped in so many places that whole ceramic chunks were missing and the rest craved serious dusting, better yet: wiping down, cleaning.

None of it made much sense to Harold and his wife. Biggs had money, no secret there, yet lived like a pauper and did very little to keep his church up.

Fay Crust intended to sit in anyway. They were here now, were they not? One respected the Lord, less than ideal surroundings or not. She took her own Bible that Harold had been holding for her.

She spied a couple of vacant seats in the front row. Sat in one of them. Harold remained standing. Hesitant to do as his wife had done. Wanted to leave more than anything. There was the smell. Strong odor was more like it. Feared it might make him vomit. Only there was no way out, not really. Couldn’t leave Fay behind by herself with this strange bunch. Christ, why’d he have to come? Fay, Fay. God help him. He followed suit: took a seat next to his spouse.

CHAPTER 258

Bishop Biggs picked up from where he had left off: read from the open Bible that lay atop the shoddy lectern as though he were not particularly aware of the new arrivals.

‘So if Thou are going to deal thus with me, please kill me at once, if I have found favor in Thy sight, and do not let me see my wretchedness.’ The Lord therefore said to Moses, ‘Gather for Me seventy men from the elders of Israel, whom you know to be the elders of the people and their officers and bring them to the tent of meeting, and let them take their stand there with you. Then I will come down and speak with you there, and I will take of the Spirit who is upon you, and will put Him upon them; and they shall bear the burden of the people with you, so that you shall not bear it all alone. And say to the people, Consecrate yourselves for tomorrow, and you shall eat meat; for you have wept in the ears of the Lord, saying, Oh that someone would give us meat to eat! For we were well-off in Egypt. Therefore the Lord will give you meat and you shall eat. You shall eat, not one day, nor two days, nor five days, nor ten days, nor twenty days, but a whole month, until it comes out of your nostrils and becomes loathsome to you; because you have rejected the Lord who is among you and have wept before Him, saying, Why did we ever leave Egypt?’

Cecil looked up briefly, nodded toward the Crusts with a smile, then, revealing the page the next passage was on, proceeded: "‘I will instruct you and teach you in the way which you should go; I will counsel you with My eye upon you. Do not be as the horse or as the mule which have no understanding, whose trappings include bit and bridle to hold them in check. Otherwise they will not come near to you. Many are the sorrow of the wicked; but he who trusts in the Lord, loving-kindness shall surround him. Be glad in the Lord and rejoice you righteous ones, and shout for joy all you who are upright in heart.’" The bishop topped it off with a soft amen, and closed the Book. He strolled down toward Harold and Fay Crust, eager to shake hands and welcome them to his church.

"We used to do this more often; three times a week, in fact—Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays—gather this way. If I didn’t always give a full sermon, we discussed the Bible, we discussed matters of importance—namely the Lord and the importance of leading a Christian life, a pure life, a clean life."

CHAPTER 259

They were introduced to some of the members; and while Fay Crust responded in kind, and while her husband Harold pretended to have as much enthusiasm for it, he had a difficult time dealing with the strange odor, and finally Harold Crust’s expression gave him away. Biggs picked up on it.

It’s our chef. Greta Otto. Dear Greta, she means well—but does at times burn her cooking. It really isn’t her fault. We have a rather old stove that we use downstairs in the kitchen. In fact, that’s where we normally feed our regular people, board of directors, and staff; the accommodations are better suited for that. But we’ve had such a generous turn out today that we decided, as a matter of convenience, to simply serve everyone in this room instead. What we could really use is about a dozen microwave ovens . . . when you consider the endless parade of empty bellies we do our very best to fill.

Why not just go out and buy them? Harold Crust suggested good-naturedly. "You can afford it—if you can afford a Rolls and a Cadillac."

"The Rolls is not what you think. Got it cheap many, many years ago. It’s a ’72, and the Cadillac, well, the Cadillac belongs to the church. The church is kind enough to permit me to use it on occasion."

"Rough, ain’t it? I can relate to that. Got an old Falcon myself."

Their deeds will not allow them to return to their God, stammered Miss Betty Lou Rutterschmidt from her wheelchair. For a spirit of harlotry is within them, And they do not know the Lord. Miss Betty’s daughter Mildred Elizabeth cradled a doll that she had wrapped in newsprint with black-and-white pornographic images. Cecil had no idea how she had gotten hold of the newspaper.

Miss Betty, he interjected. Our wonderfully resilient, not to mention ageless, organist. Took Mildred Elizabeth here under her wing when Mildred was in her teens already and emotionally troubled. Both were in Camarillo at the time, the State facility. A well-meaning, good-hearted lady Miss Betty is. Saintly. Reminds one of Mother Theresa, truly. Mildred Elizabeth and Miss Betty have been together ever since.

I adore kids, Miss Betty Rutterschmidt said. Always wanted kids. Never had any of my own. Had to adopt. My biological clock is running out. The male bastards saw to that. Castrate every single one, I say.

"She doesn’t mean any of it. Found them both sleeping in a doorway one night, shivering, at the corner of Wilshire and Sweetzer, their meager belongings, all that they owned, in a Safeway shopping cart. That was just about four years ago. Ninety-two years young Miss Betty is—and works that ancient church organ like a woman half her age."

I can see that, Fay Crust said. God bless.

Thank you, Bishop Biggs, Miss Betty said. And thank you, Mrs. Crust. You’re a kind one, I can tell.

Amen, said Mildred Elizabeth, while poking at the wart on her chin with a toothpick from which blood had clearly begun to surface at this point.

Please don’t do that, sweetheart, Biggs requested gently, taking the toothpick away, as well as taking her trembling hand away from her face. Mildred Elizabeth began the nervous bit with thumb and little finger. And as Biggs was about to show the Crusts to the hallway and the Bible Room in back, Mildred swiped at him with her free hand and knocked the large Bible from his grasp. Biggs was quick to bend down and retrieve it without losing his composure.

My mother’s. The only thing she left behind when she passed on. It was enough. The most treasured of my belongings.

"Same way I feel about my Bible," agreed Mrs. Crust. As they entered the other room, some of the geeks followed. Others, like Norbert Fimple, were already seated at a large table in an alcove at the far end. The Bible Room consisted of two black Naugahyde sofas, old and worn, and some other used furniture, a black-and-white tv set; a bookcase lined one side of the room loaded down with religious literature: tracts as well as Bibles and other books on Christianity.

Greta Otto was serving Norbert Fimple the jambalaya she was known for. Mr. Fimple reached in his shirt pocket for his dentures and shoved them in his mouth. Big Tex Leo Nix sat across the table from him. All were attired in dark brown robes with hoodies. Greta had her mask on.

Julian Ionesco made a wild dash at Harold Crust with his wooden spoon, and Biggs thwarted the attack in the nick of time. Held the Rumanian down, and with Marvin’s help shoved him back to the sofa.

"Ja ja. We don’t got no black kurva in my country. We got no job, no food, no money—but at least we don’t got no black kurva."

If I don’t make room for them, who will? Who will do it? After all, we are all God’s children. That’s the purpose to this. It may not be enough, but it is all we can manage at this time. We have plans to expand, perhaps a bigger place in another part of town. It’s a matter of funds; it’s always a matter of funds.

Tell me about it, Harold Crust concurred. "Why I ain’t got automobile insurance these days. No funds. Same reason why them Beverly Hills butchers what work at that hospital out there stuck a pacemaker in my chest: liked my health insurance policy, and jumped on it. They was needin’ funds. I know about it. Sure do."

His wife felt a need to nudge him in the side in order to keep him from talking too much.

Anyway, allow me to introduce you to some of the other faithful followers and/or members of the board and staff.

CHAPTER 260

Bishop motioned his head in Sassounian’s direction, who sat in a corner of the room staring off into space. He had a blond wig on, devoid of blood this time, however, the lipstick was blood-red across the upper lip, as well as what remained of the lower. There was blush-on on his cheeks. What was left of his toes (exposed in open-toe pumps) were heavily bandaged, as were the fingers: both in gauze and white medical tape.

Experiencing a mild case of identity crises. Mr. Sassounian, Lawrence Sassounian, prefers Laura or Sassy, believes he’s ready for sexual reassignment surgery. Right now we’re trying to sway him away from it; things could be fine as they are. This type of surgery is not to be taken lightly. If we do not convince him not to go through with it, we proceed to raise the necessary funds for the procedure, so long as it makes Sassy happy. The United Christian Church of Re-Newed Hope makes every effort to bring happiness to people’s lives.

Fay and Harold Crust were wincing. The unusual-looking bunch and the hard-to-take stench did it to them.

Trouble is, added Cecil Biggs, clearly troubled himself as he spoke, last year he wanted to have his right leg amputated simply because he was tired of it. That was his reason. Now he’s eager to trade his penis in for a vagina. You can understand why we’re in no rush to go along.

Good Heavens, said Fay Crust.

You have a point, Bishop, said Harold Crust. I can see that. Yessir. Why be hasty?

Exactly. We saved the man’s leg, and we’re hoping to do the same for his groin—unless he’s dead-set on it. Which can only be determined in time.

"Any man in Sassy’s situation should think twice before saying adios to his manhood."

Trying to make him see it our way is a bit of a challenge. But we’re up to it.

Harold didn’t know whether to laugh or keep a straight face. He decided on the latter. It wasn’t easy. Hell, nothing was easy about this entire visit, none of it had been fun or uplifting, let alone this outrageous discussion about a man first wanting to have a perfectly good leg taken off, and now wanting to part with his Johnson. There seemed to be more to the story, too.

Sassy is a licensed psychotherapist. Put himself through school by cleaning carpets at night, and once he received his degree he stayed with the carpets in order to be able to spend time with his two daughters, as his wife, also a therapist, had her hands full with her practice during the day. Sassy enjoyed cleaning carpets to such an extent, and as a matter of convenience, stayed with it in order to help raise their kids. But of course, once he revealed to his then spouse his true sexual bent, she promptly divested herself of the marriage and returned to her native India, taking the teens with her. To his credit, he handled it with aplomb. Epitomizes genuine resilience. We are honored to have Sassy as our resident therapist. We go to him for advice on a vast array of issues. He is never without time and patience to help resolve challenges others may be experiencing, no matter how dire or seemingly trivial. He has helped countless needy and confused parishioners and others get back on the right track on a quest to a more fulfilling life. Biggs’s was a pregnant pause. Noticed Sassounian tear the heavy gauze off his index finger with his teeth. Bishop dreaded what was about to transpire next. Of course, as anyone will tell you, his own demons are toughest for him to deal with.

You can say that again, suggested Harold Crust, as he and his aghast wife watched Sassy Sassounian bite the entire fingernail clean off and surrounding flesh with it and chew it in his mouth and swallow it. Followed up by sucking the blood that seeped from the wound.

Fay Crust found herself wincing.

Must he do that?

We try so very hard to prevent this type of unpleasant behavior. It isn’t easy. Sassy’s is a troubled existence, to put it mildly.

Harold Crust shook his head.

I get that. Ain’t nothing mild about eating your own flesh.

"Autosarcophagy, I believe is what they call it, or autocannibalism."

Sassy don’t never havta sweat goin’ hungry, said Marvin R. Muck. Don’t never run out of food that way, neither. Bishop don’t mind.

Fay Crust could not decide if she were genuinely concerned or merely repulsed at this point. Quite possibly both. In equal measure. I sure do hope he don’t eat himself out of existence, Bishop Biggs.

It’s been known to happen.

Harold Crust saw an opportunity to slip one of his one-liners in and could not resist. Or else dude might try adding salt and pepper to make it go down easier. His wife swung a hard elbow in his ribs and Harold corrected himself. Course I’m kiddin’. Couldn’t help it. Something like that can gross a man out. Humor seems to help. Only reason I suggested salt and pepper.

"You call it humor, Mr. Crust. To those of us who love and revere Sassy, it is nothing less than tragic. And painful. He has consumed too many of his toes, consumed other parts of his body: his entire left ear, and part of the right. When a highly intelligent individual with impeccable morals such as Sassy Sassounian resorts to devouring his own flesh . . . resorts to autocannibalism . . . Biggs was on the verge of tears. For all intents and purposes, was in tears. That’s one sad and troubled individual in need of care and understanding."

It was not unusual for the Crusts—like so many other long-married couples—to be in the habit of stating the same at the same time. This was the perfect opportunity, then, for the shaken and nervous couple to exercise said habit. We couldn’t agree more.

Mrs. Sassounian moved to her native India, kids-in-tow. More than a decade ago. Sassy has yet to receive so much as a postcard. Not even a postcard.

I hope the dude, Sassy, can hang in there. Miracles happen. I’m livin’ proof of that. That postcard could come in one of these days. Never know. It could.

Fay Crust shot her husband a stare: Will you knock it off? Stop it. Harold’s reaction was to shrug his shoulders, raise his brows. He was only trying to be positive.

Cecil O. Biggs was non-plussed. "Sassy is head of Public Relations. Composes the colorful flyers that are sent out to congregation members to announce special church events throughout the year. Sassy also runs our Meals-On-Wheels program that provides free meals to senior citizens and the handicapped in various parts of the Valley, retirement homes and hospitals. He felt a need for another pregnant pause in order to allow it all to sink in. Pleased with himself. That’s what we’re about: giving. We give as much as we can."

Harold Crust leaned in his wife’s ear.

Right now, wish somebody would give me some fresh air.

That’s our chef, Greta Otto. Biggs pointed to the Jumper/Leaper, who had not only jumped from more than one motel/motor lodge rooftop in the San Fernando Valley, but several. She had even managed to climb to the top of the letter W (for Woman) of the Hollywood sign, before a fence had been erected around it to keep other suicide cases from making the world-famous landmark a favorite destination from which to end their lives with—and had been talked out of taking that fatal plunge. The facial scars, self-inflicted—that I won’t go into for obvious reasons; no call to embarrass our wonderful Greta. The scars make her self-conscious, so Greta wears the mask. We love and accept her with or without it.

CHAPTER 261

Biggs moved up. Indicated the Tall T. This is Mr. Leo Nix, our Chief of Maintenance; a genuine cowboy from the Lone Star State. Drove a cement truck in Dallas. Got it in his head to crawl in it one day—and did. If the site foreman hadn’t been alert and noticed him tumbling around in the wet cement and hauled him out, washed him off, cleaned him up—I hate to think what would have happened.

Big Tex looked up from his bowl. Tipped the brim of his sweat-stained, worn Stetson. "How-do. I done lost it on account he was carryin’ on with my woman behind my back. Ernesto was my best amigo."

Norbert Fimple was getting a second portion of Greta’s stew.

Fay Crust took note. My goodness. He sure can put it away. That’s a gentleman with an appetite.

Mr. Fimple? He’s a saint. God bless him. Never says much, never asks for much. A quiet man. Good with numbers, a natural. We made him our treasurer.

"Yo. He know’ number’ all right, ’cept Number One and Number Two."

Harold Crust had not been able to ignore the lengthy bandage on the man’s face that ran from his left ear clear down to his mouth. Looks like your Mr. Fimple’s been through some hard times.

Biggs nodded. A nervous breakdown a few years back . . . that he never fully recovered from. . . .

Figured it had to be something like that.

Fay Crust could not help herself, and pried for details. What happened to the dear man, if you don’t mind my asking, Bishop Biggs?

Some ho dumped ol’ Norbert Pimple many a year ago. Took off wiff his kid, cleaned out the bank account, took the furniture. All she left Norbert was a can of tuna and a roll of ass-wipe in the crapper. Didn’t leave no can opener, neither, so the dude could get him some tuna.

The expression on Fay Crust’s face indicated she was taken aback by such a display of vulgarity, in a supposed house of worship, no less. Then again, it was to be expected. Marvin Muck tended to behave in this low-class manner.

Good heavens.

I must apologize for Deacon Marvin’s language. He doesn’t know any better. If he did, he’d choose his words more carefully.

"Yo. What language, Dawg? Don’t nothin’ be wrong wiff it. You be talkin’ the same way when there don’t be nobody around."

Biggs let it ride like it didn’t matter. Fay Crust’s husband felt a need to add his two bits.

Figured the old cat musta been through some heavy-duty thing. Left scars you can’t see.

Then it happened; there was no way to ignore it: the metal collar on Mr. Fimple’s neck became visible as he scratched his Adam’s apple. Fay and Harold exchanged glances. What was going on?

"Got that right, Brotha. Norbert had hisself a breakdown. Mental collapse. Did nineteen years in the VA psycho ward, no shit. When he got out, bought hisself a Saturday Night Special. Tracked the ho down up in Eskimo country, shackin’ wiff a used car sellin’ dude. Done a number on his head, ’cause Norbert useta sell used car’ hisself. Mr. Pimple’s son never knowed who Norbert was. Ain’t that right, Norbert?"

Norbert ate, without responding. He didn’t care what was said about him, or any of it. Didn’t matter.

Norbert never said nothin’ to him. Just walked away. Was throwin’ up an’ shit. Didn’t pop nobody. Walked away and had hisself a real fit. Relap’. Norbert was happy seein’ his boy all growed up —

Evidently Norbert Fimple was not the only one with a metal collar round his neck; there appeared to be others. Greta Otto, their chef, had one of them things on, too.

Biggs thought additional details might clarify things. Mr. Fimple never recovered. Ended up back in the institution for another ten years, and was released with no place to go. He slept on the sidewalk down on Main Street, until we took him in. He’s doing fine here with us as a valuable member of the board. He’s being healed with heaps of love and care, as are all the others who live here with the deacon and myself.

My heart goes out to the dear man.

For sure. Harold Crust could not help it: mentioned that the metal collar on the man’s neck seemed to have loops on either side, too.

You don’t want to be aksking.

Oh that. Norbert’s a sleep-walker and has to be hooked to his brass bed at night. It’s for his own safety. Otherwise he stumbles into things, stubs his toes.

Harold Crust indicated Greta Otto and the collar on her neck. What about your chef? She a sleepwalker, too? Harold suspected, rightfully so, that his wife felt uncomfortable that he would probe in this manner. It wasn’t any of their business, was it?

No. To keep her from drowning in the tub when she bathes. She has to be periodically yanked up out of the water.

She ain’t got enough sense to do that on her own?

If she did, there would be no need for others to look after her, would there? She has seizures—not unlike Lloyd Dicker’s grandson across the street.

Harold’s wife was wishing her husband wouldn’t pursue this line of questioning. Something did not seem right about it.

She’s fine presently, so long as we see to it that she takes her medication.

Harold and his wife were nodding their heads.

"Just like Norbert. He’s low-key these days. The meds make all the difference in the world. Hardly ever makes a fuss. Minds his own business."

I get it. Harold Crust picked up on the hint. I got no business asking. I can dig that, Bishop Biggs. Mindin’ our own business been a way of life with the missus and me; except, thing is, some folks been askin’, you know, wantin’ to get at what all the gunshots is about; firecrackers and such. Well, not so much as guns bein’ fired, more like firecrackers. Cherry bombs, maybe, too. Them firecrackers can burn down a place real quick, in no time at all. Folks is worried about their place goin’ up in smoke, is all. If your place burned down, well then, our place could, too. Ain’t nothin’ but wood and stucco. And then you got Roscoe’s place. All of them other homes on the block. Homeowners is worried. That dump what we own ain’t much, for sure, Bishop Biggs, but it’s all we got. Makin’ mortgage is tough enough as it is. You can understand, can’t you?

You and your wife have nothing to fear, Mr. Crust, neither do the good people of North Hollywood. Those aren’t gun shots you heard, not even firecrackers—with the exception on the 4th of July, of course, when we permit our hard-working staff to participate in what is, after all, a nationwide celebration of this great country. What sort of heartless and inconsiderate church leader would I be if I banned what is nothing more than a harmless show of patriotism?

Patriotism? Ain’t nothing the matter with bein’ patriotic.

For the most part, what you and your wonderful wife, the other neighbors in this accommodating community heard, is balloons.

Balloons?

Birthday balloons, party balloons. Hundreds of them. Party revelers get carried away and pop the balloons with cigarettes and stogies, toothpicks and forks. This is what causes the ‘loud’ bangs. And they are very loud, I must admit. It’s all quite harm-less.

Balloons? Birthday party balloons? And Harold cursed himself inside for being stupidly repetitious. He wondered if they would be allowed to leave? Wanted air. The smell was too much; the smell, the demented souls who reminded him of Charlie Manson and his hippie freaks who butchered all those people years ago. Harold traded furtive glances with his wife from time to time and readily understood that the feeling was mutual. Both may have felt a degree of compassion for the loony bunch—still, the idea was to get out. Fresh air was needed. They’d seen enough.

If Biggs and his church were for real— and one could not tell either way—it was good enough for him. He remembered the speech he’d prepared, what to say to Biggs about the loud music at all hours of the night, and decided to leave it alone. He had a pacemaker to think of.

It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Mr. Fimple. Mrs. Crust did offer a warm smile. As well as the rest of you folks.

Harold joined in. The pleasure was all mine, Norbert. And then the two of them thanked the bishop.

Thank you for the fruitcake. I’ve got my cook Greta Otto just about ready to serve the rest of us some of her delicious beef stew. Would you good people care to join us?

Norbert sure love’ that stew, don’t he? Deacon Marvin was the one with the astute observation. Fay and Harold had to decline.

No, no. Thank you. Truth is we should get going. We sure would love to take you up on that some other time, though, Bishop Biggs.

They kept their eyes on Julian Ionesco. Would he make a second attempt to leap at them? And what about the woman in the mask? And the cowboy? The man in the blond wig was banging his head against the wall.

The Crusts walked out of the Bible Room and down the hallway. Waved good-byes to the people behind them as well as the people in the Prayer Hall. They made it down the stairs to the first floor. Marvin R. Muck stayed right behind them. They reached the front door and waited nervously for Marvin to unlock it, only it seemed to take him forever: going through so many keys on the key ring.

Finally, the front door was unlocked and the Crusts thanked the man again for his and the bishop’s hospitality, and stepped outside. The door closed behind them, and only then did they allow themselves great sighs of relief as they reached the sidewalk.

CHAPTER 262

Biggs had left the worshippers upstairs among the staff with crackers and cookies and Kool-Aid to chase the treats down with, while taking Marvin R. Muck–the fuck, by the sleeve and yanking him downstairs to the living room, whereby the bishop slammed the door shut and had his deacon by the throat.

"Told you before: Don’t ever mistake kindness for weakness, Brother Marvin."

Muck was clearly having difficulty breathing.

If I made mistake. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Hoss. I’m sorry.

"Sorry? You’re sorry? You don’t use that kind of language in the presence of guests. There is such a thing as decorum. That’s how I try to run this parish, especially when we let outsiders in. Get me? I must have explained it to you at least a dozen times. You have to behave like a deacon if you intend to remain my deacon."

Marvin was nodding, readily agreeing. The bishop didn’t exactly throw him down, nor was it a clean release—that resulted in Marvin dropping to the floor all the same, trying to regain his breath.

Biggs drew his switchblade.

What chu gonna do?

Something I should have done before. Cecil’s expression betrayed the slightest trace of a grin. Then he walked to the mini fridge and took the fruitcake out. He set it on the coffee table in front of the futon. Cut a slice.

Go on.

Marvin was uncertain for a moment. Shook his head at last, not knowing what to think.

Dawg. Yo. Sometime you the best, other time’ you be actin’ like a mean mothafuckin’ pimp.

Take your slice of fruitcake and shut up.

Marvin did that. Stayed on the floor. He ate.

Cecil unlocked the indoor shutters over the window and opened them. He cut a slice of cake for himself and ate at the window, while peering through a vertical crack in the outside shutters and could easily make out the Crusts headed in the direction of Marty and Petunia’s place.

There goes Mother Teresa and John the Baptist. He bit off a chunk of fruitcake. Snoopers. On their way to yak it up with Prince Charming and Cinderella.

Gonna tell ’em what they seen in here, Cecil. Marvin coughed, clearing his throat. He was finished with his slice of fruitcake and scooted on over on hands and knees to get at the rest of the cake—if possible—before Cecil noticed. He was hungry. Wouldn’t eat all of it. Would leave some for Cecil, too.

He managed a good bite out of it without ever touching the fruitcake with his hands. Biggs kept eyeing the action outside and had no idea what Marvin was up to.

What I tell you? Muck was enjoying himself. Fruitcake was good. Whole lot better than what he usually had to eat: stale bread, peanut butter, dog biscuits, bean’ in a can, and Greta’ lousy cookin’, what give him diarrhea half the time.

That’s fine. Just fine. They can’t hurt me. What did they see? Let them spread the good word. Sits well with me. It should squelch some of those negative rumors floating around out there regarding the Church of Re-Newed Hope. . . .

Yeah. Them rumor’ be like a balloon: get bigger wiff every puff.

Biggs turned his head to look at the wise-ass. Noticed finally the damage Marvin was exacting. Imbecile was on all fours like a slobbering hound. Had his head on the coffee table, face resting on one side, while he continued to bite into the fruitcake, attempting to devour as much as possible this way, and basically managing to destroy it in this fashion. Reminded him of jackals feeding on carrion he saw once in a Wild Kingdom episode—only Marvin’s frenzy and vulgarity of it far exceeded anything the rabid beasts had exhibited.

Are you sight impaired?

Yo. I ain’t that.

Why act like it, then? Is the fruitcake close enough to you?

Muck wasn’t about to respond. Had no time for it. Problem was whenever he took a bite he inadvertently pushed the fruitcake farther away from his reach. Didn’t have time to talk. He was busy eating right now.

"Let’s bring you and the fruitcake closer together, why don’t we? How does that sound? How’s that for logic? Biggs walked up from behind. Here." He clamped both of his hands across the back of Marvin’s neck and head and pushed his face down into what remained of the mutilated fruitcake, and watched Marvin Muck kick out with his legs in desperation: arms flailing, head twisting, as he gasped for air once again.

How’s the fruitcake, Marvin?

Marvin was unable to breathe, let alone speak. Needed air.

"Like the fruitcake, cocksucker? Huh, motherfucker? Sometimes you’re the ‘best’—other times, you eat like an animal. How is it? Seems to me you clearly like it. The Rumanian cab driver is right to grouse about your lack of manners. Sure is."

Biggs let him up momentarily, then reapplied pressure, shoving his face back down in it.

"Have some more, then, why don’t you? Home-made. By that four-eyed, gray-haired, cake-baking old cooze next door."

Marvin yelled to be released. Biggs decided to let him up for good this time, before the ill-mannered a-hole expired on him, not that in and of itself would have bothered him in any way. Only when you had a fucked-up spine it paid to have a moronic water-carrier like this around to help out with some of the heavy lifting.

Marvin rolled on his back. Subsequently flipped over on his stomach to cough up some of the chunks trapped in his gullet.

Biggs was back at the window. Placed the headset over his ears.

Lucky for you there wasn’t a ‘Baby Ruth’ in that cake box. Because if there had been . . . you’d be choking on it right now. . . .

He pulled the bottom window up a few inches. Aimed the shotgun mic in the direction of the couple outside on the sidewalk: a man and a woman he genuinely doubted had his best interest at heart.

CHAPTER 263

Harold Crust had paused to shake out a piece of Nicorette gum from the tiny box it came in. Took his sweet time about it, too.

His wife waited patiently while he went through the routine.

He popped a piece in his mouth eventually. They moved on on the sidewalk.

I ain’t got no idea what that Norbert cat was eatin’, but it sure looked disgusting the way he was eatin’ it. Made me sick.

I feel sorry for the poor man.

I do, too. Sick and sorry. Had my belly doin’ flip-flops, no lie. Talk about odor. Then that dude Sassy started eatin’ his fingers. Lord Jesus—I thought I would puke for sure. Had a hell of a time holding it all down.

I do feel relieved to be out of there.

You kept after me to see the inside of Biggs’s church and so we did. You happy now, Fay? We shot the shit with the man. Kinda peculiar, other than that okay.

Harold—

What?

The language.

Oh. You know I don’t mean nothin’ by it.

Tell it to your Maker on the Day of Judgement.

Now, Fay. You gotta lighten up some, gal.

I surely will, the day folks stop using the Lord’s name in vain.

Don’t seem to me you’re as happy to be out of that place as I am, that’s all. Didn’t seem to me like you was in any hurry to leave.

You can joke all you want, Harold. I’m just glad to be out of there. Smelled awful in there—

You said it right there: smelled nastier than Delonzo’s litter box. Something like roadkill, maybe worse. Tried to hold my breath long as I could without breathin’. Wasn’t easy. Didn’t want to cause for another stroke to happen, neither.

CHAPTER 264

They reached Marty and Petunia’s front porch. Climbed the stoop. Petunia Roscoe was quick and eager to let them in and did not waste time bombarding them with questions regarding the trollops, and if there had been any evidence of unsavory behavior.

Harold shrugged. "Don’t know nothin’ about no ‘unsavory behavior,’ Mrs. Roscoe. It sure was putrid, though. Puzzles me how them folks can live that way. Smelled like something died in there."

See? What did I tell you about that, Marty? Petunia waved her finger at her husband for effect. What did I tell you?

"Hold your beans, woman. Ain’t nobody argued with you about the stench. Harold here is saying it smelled like something died in there. Smelled like it. That don’t mean nothing else. He never said he saw nobody dead in that damn house. I told you myself it smelled like a dead dog or something when I was at their door the other day talking to them."

Why don’t you zip it? Petunia snapped at her husband. She had her nose back in Harold Crust’s face.

Sure he’s not running a slut house next door, Harold?

How do you figure, Petunia?

You men both know what Mrs. Roscoe is talking about. All them young hussies in tight skirts—

Sluts with tits out to here. Petunia Roscoe’s hand gesture exceeded the enormity of her own imposing bosom to indicate breast size. Street-walkers, hookers, prostitutes. How many different ways do I have to spell it out, Harold?

Marty Roscoe couldn’t help himself. He was chuckling at this point. Harold himself was amused. I know what a street-walker is, Petunia. You ain’t got to spell nothing on my account. Truth is, we saw nothing of the sort. My wife was with me the whole time.

Fay Crust was agreeing with her husband. We didn’t see nothing dirty going on in that place, Petunia honey; thank God.

"Except the slop that sorry character Norbert Fimple was shovelin’ in his mouth. Not only looked dirty, but nasty as hell. Then there was this other dude that beat that, easy: called him Sassy. Chewed his fingernails right off his fingers—and that ain’t all. Swallowed ’em, and liked it. Blood and all. Sucked his own blood; ate parts of his fingers. You heard right: was eatin’ his own flesh. Now, that was nasty. It may not have been dirty, unless his fingers was dirty, but it sure was some nasty business going on. Enough to give a man nightmares. I cracked a joke right about then. Guess I was nervous, we both was, and tried to make fun of it. Not of Sassy or any of them, but the situation."

Needless to say, it didn’t go over.

Harold glanced at his wife just then. No, it didn’t.

"Loco. Just as I suspected. Explains why me and Pet ain’t never seen none of them: never step outside—except Biggs and his flunky."

Loco? said Harold Crust. "You might say that. Then again, who ain’t loco these days?"

Roscoe turned to his wife. You happy now, babe?

Petunia wouldn’t/couldn’t let it go. There had to be more, more than some worthless tales she was getting about some swine who was a sloppy eater, and a certified idiot who had a habit of biting his fingernails. Who didn’t do that? She needed dirt on Biggs. She was certain there was more to the scenario than was being presented.

"I tell you there is something that just is not kosher about the man. What about the wild parties, orgies, for all I know? What about the music? The creep is always hammering away. Then there’s that chainsaw at night—"

Roscoe was starting to get a little impatient with it all. His wife had a one-track mind. He knew that well enough by now—and once she got on it, there was no letting up.

I told you, woman, he likes to build things—

Petunia’s finger was working again. Aimed right at him, for emphasis. "Shut up, idiot. I want them to tell me."

Her husband’s face turned a quick red just then. He did not like being disrespected, not like this, especially not in front of other people. He decided to let it ride. He would deal with the psychotic later.

Harold Crust hadn’t cared for the way Petunia was treating her husband either, felt uneasy for the dumb bastard, and did the only thing there was to do at this moment, kept the conversation going.

Like Marty says, Mrs. Roscoe: it’s true. The reverend likes to work with his hands, prefers to build his own furniture: tables, chairs, things like that, for his people, for the church. Rebuilding the altar, too. He’s a busy man. Likes to play music when he works and he plays it loud, as you mentioned. Motivates him. Heck, I got a little radio myself at the stand. Like to leave the blues on, some jazz. Makes work more enjoyable.

There is something in the pit of my stomach that tells me that is a bunch of horse manure—

All right. Roscoe was just about glaring at his wife. "Were you ever inside that house? Did you ever actually see the inside of that church?"

You know the answer to that. You know damn well I’ve never set foot inside that creep’s smelly dump and I wouldn’t want to—

"Well, I’m telling you these people was there—inside. They saw the place, with other witnesses there."

Petunia was shaking her head, totally annoyed with this hick she’d gotten stuck with. Would you please shut up and let them talk?

CHAPTER 265

Fay Crust cleared her throat. She didn’t know whether to take her husband with her and leave right now or stay a bit longer and then leave once the fighting had subsided.

If you ask me, man’s got his hands full with that staff of his.

That cat Norbert Fimple didn’t stop eatin’ the entire time we was there. Must cost the reverend a small fortune.

What about the guns?

Huh?

We talked about this, Harold. What’s he doing firing guns?

Firecrackers, you mean?

Sure.

Balloons. Leastways what he claims.

Balloons?

Yeah, dude. Birthday balloons; large ones. Bein’ popped with butts and stogies. Birthday party balloons. Got enough folks in there, I suppose, for them to be celebratin’ all the time.

Sounds like a line of bull. I know you and your woman ain’t that naive. You can’t be.

Never claimed I bought it. All I said was that’s what the man told us. Fay was right there, stood next to me. Heard all of it like I did.

Balloons and firecrackers. What a crock.

Anyway, that’s about it. We’ll see you folks later.

Fay joined her husband in wishing the Roscoes a lovely afternoon. Roscoe and Petunia thanked the Crusts for stopping by. Walked them to the door.