The Devil's Lament

By Kenneth W. Harmon

Lucifer and Eve’s forbidden love is rekindled in Dust Bowl America in this “fascinating, memorable, and incredibly well-written” dark fantasy romance (Bram Stoker Award-winning author John R. Little).

It is 1932. The world has turned to dust. Lucifer stills walks among us, testing the faithful at every turn. On a mission to find a man who claims he can heal the sick, he discovers the reincarnation of Eve in a Dust Bowl revival tent … and their ancient passion threatens the world again.

When Lucifer and Eve were together in Eden, their relationship changed the fate of humanity. What will happen if God brings them together again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Oct 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682610480

Kenneth W. Harmon

Kenneth W. Harmon lives in Fort Collins, Colorado, with his wife and daughters. The award-winning author of four novels, he is a member of the Historical Novel Society, Japan-America Society of Colorado, and Historical Writers of America.

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER WINLOCK BOOKS YOU’LL LOVE

CHAPTER ONE

The centipedes came by the thousands, an orange wave that swept inside the revival tent. Men leaped to their feet and crashed through wooden chairs. Women screamed. Children wailed and kicked at the dirt. An old woman fell and centipedes swarmed over her. She twitched as if shocked by electricity as they squeezed between her lips and inside her nose. The evangelist’s assistants ran to the stage, tossing aside the bowls they used to collect money. Coins spiraled through the air in flashes of silver. A revival worker swept Sister Jean into his arms and carried her out of the tent.

Worshipers surged toward the exit. A man swatted at a centipede biting his ear. A boy cried as they tore into his neck. Two men dragged the old woman who had fallen, ignoring the biting insects that scurried onto their arms. Lucifer followed the men outside and watched them slap off the attackers with their coats. People dove into rusting Model Ts. Doors slammed. Engines coughed to life. One of the men hovering over the old woman turned to Lucifer. Can you help us?

Lucifer lowered his gaze and said nothing.

Centipedes poured out of the tent, parting as they neared Lucifer. The men stopped beating the bugs on the woman and walked away from her lifeless body. One bent over, hands on his knees, and hyperventilated. The other man sobbed into his palms.

Lucifer’s hands curled into fists. His body went numb with shock. What have I done?

Beyond the revival camp, leaves on cottonwood trees lining the bank of the South Canadian River rustled in the hot breeze. Lucifer walked a path worn through the buffalo grass that led to the riverbed of deep sands and quicksand. The green river burbled past in the afternoon light. A whooping crane rose into the sky with the pounding of wings. Lucifer squatted at the edge of the river. He splashed water onto his face and slicked back his long ebony hair. Squinting against the sun, he searched downriver for Cresil. Where are you, my friend?

Lucifer moved into the long shadows of the trees. He slumped against the grassy bank and breathed in the musty smell of warm earth. Eyes closed, he waited. He thought about the revival. Shocked to see Sister Jean perform an actual miracle, he was prepared to declare her a true instrument of God, then she had to start begging the poor to give her money. He remembered the rage that rose inside him and wondered now if her behavior warranted his response. The centipedes were meant to punish the evangelist. Instead, an innocent woman lay dead, and the sinner remained free to sin. This was the way of things … always the same, since the dawn of humanity.

Quail broke from the tall grass, tiny dark flashes against the sun. Sister Jean staggered down the slope and headed for the river. Lucifer stood and followed her to the riverbank. The evangelist sank to her knees and bowed toward the water. Hands raised, she mumbled a prayer. He came alongside her and she scrambled to her feet, eyes wide with fear.

I knew you’d come to the river. For some reason, Christians believe they can wash away their sins.

What do you want? she asked, her voice trembling.

Lucifer picked up a flat stone and skipped it over the water. Why do you think Jesus wanted to be baptized? It’s a question I have often pondered and should have asked when I had the opportunity. Since he was not Essene, he wouldn’t have taken part in their ritual washing for conversion and purification. Perhaps he did it to institute a sacrament for his followers or to inaugurate his ministry as a wandering preacher.

She glanced over her shoulder as though expecting someone to join them. Perspiration beaded along her hairline. Her chest heaved.

Lucifer stared into the cloudless sky. Matthew, Mark, and Luke tell us the heavens opened when Jesus was baptized and God declared him to be His beloved Son. I know about Heaven and of being beloved. And I know of betrayal.

Why are you here?

I’m searching for an evangelist called Brother Silas. I’ve heard he also has the gift of healing. Why it was given remains a mystery.

Her fingers slipped down the front of her dress and brought out a gold cross on a chain. She held it before her. By the power of God, I demand you leave this place!

You wield the cross as if a weapon. I have seen the cross. I wept before it.

There’s nothing you can say I’ll believe.

Lucifer shook his head. All this trouble over a piece of fruit—that is what you teach the gullible masses, is it not?

Leave me alone!

Why should I, when you use my name to scare your followers into giving you money. Have you no shame? Those people can barely afford to feed themselves, let alone pay you for spinning your lies.

She glanced over her shoulder again. You’re evil. You’re a—

Fallen angel. Yes, I’ve heard that fable as well. The truth is I’ll never fall to your level. I’m still a member of the Council of Angels. My love for God is unadulterated.

Lies, all lies!

I know that’s easier for you to believe. The church has used me as a crutch for years. I’m the mortar that built a thousand cathedrals.

She turned to run. He lunged forward and seized her collar. Get back here! I have more questions for you.

The front of her dress ripped and she tumbled to the ground. Get away from me! Sister Jean clutched her tattered dress, crawled backwards through the mud, then scrambled up the riverbank. When she was out of sight, he stared into the vast blue of the sky, an inverted sea that threatened to cover the earth in a second flood. He felt powerless and alone, his heart the key that locked his prison door.

CHAPTER TWO

Lucifer climbed from the riverbed and made his way to the county road. He trudged westward, his boots kicking up dust. Ahead, the orange and crimson sun turned the horizon into a sea of fire. After traveling some distance, he walked to a cottonwood tree. The silken nests of tent caterpillars spread over the tips of branches and glistened like splintered glass. Tufts of cotton floated through the air. He pressed his back against the knotted trunk and slid to the ground. Eyes closed, he listened to the high-pitched clicking of cicadas. Heat and dust washed over him and he smiled. Lucifer remembered the time spent in the desert with Christ during his triumph over temptation. That had been a good day, a glorious day, one of the few since God sent him out of the Kingdom with the job of testing humanity’s faith. Shoes crunched over the gravel that lined the road. Lucifer blinked. His gaze traveled upward to the Nephilim hovering over him.

Why weren’t you at the tent, Cresil?

The giant’s mouth twitched into a smile. There was this woman who—

Damn it! Lucifer jumped to his feet. What if I needed your assistance?

You don’t need anyone’s help, least of all mine.

You’re forgetting that the longer we’re in human form, the weaker we become, until eventually we can be injured or killed just like them.

Cresil stared at his dusty shoes. I forgot.

How could you forget? You’ve always accompanied me when I’ve had to be in a human body. Lucifer shook his head. I need you to be sharp and watch my back. Humans are savage, you know this.

Why do you suppose God wanted you in human form for this task? Wouldn’t it be easier for you to remain as spirit?

You would think so.

Silence moved between them. Cresil rocked back on his heels. So, Lucifer, what became of the church woman?

You shouldn’t call me that … not here.

But it’s your name.

A cicada dropped from the tree onto his sleeve. Lucifer pinched it between his thumb and forefinger and placed the insect on the ground. I’m not the most popular fellow in these parts.

A deep laugh rumbled from Cresil’s gut. Then what shall I call you … Santa Claus?

That would do wonders for my popularity. Lucifer shielded his eyes from the sun. I will use one of the old names. Samael.

Why the angel of death? Cresil asked. What are you hiding from me?

Samael felt a twinge in his stomach, as though a parasite invaded and devoured him from within. Do you remember Gilles de Rais?

Didn’t he fight with Joan against the English?

Yes. After Joan’s death he left the army and retired to his estate.

As I recall, he killed some kids.

That’s right, and I was there, testing his faith, and watching him fail. I can still see the terror in their eyes as he ravaged them and hear their shrieks when the blade cut them apart.

I thought he was a religious man, Cresil said.

Samael smiled at this. After he raped and slaughtered, Gilles rode in his carriage to the cathedral and professed his love for God. He paused as the painful memory darkened his thoughts. When they captured him he begged for the parents and friends of his victims to forgive him. He asked them to pray for the repose of his soul.

That must have gone over well.

They did it. Samael sighed. It’s been said Gilles’s tears served as a second baptism, and he was born anew, and thus restored to the Church. He looked straight at Cresil. If I’m to cry, who will offer forgiveness and pray for my salvation?

Cresil placed a hand on his shoulder. Does this have something to do with the revival?

I killed an old woman who came to watch the show. I killed her just as Gilles murdered those children. When Sister Jean sent her assistants out into the audience to collect money from the poor, something snapped inside me. I raised a swarm of centipedes to clear the tent.

Ha, Cresil chortled, centipedes, how original.

I didn’t intend for it to happen, but that doesn’t ease my guilt.

Guilt is a matter of perception. Some may feel remorse at swatting a fly, while others can joyfully rip out the wings of a butterfly.

Samael grunted. Please stop trying to cheer me up.

All right, if you insist. Then tell me about the evangelist. Are the rumors true? Does she have the gift of the apostles?

She restored sight to a blind man. No one has possessed this ability for thousands of years. I wanted to learn why she has this gift, but that’s not my mission. Samael pinched the bridge of his nose. Why are we here, Cresil?

I thought Gabriel brought God’s command to investigate an evangelist called Brother Silas.

Yes, but there’s more.

More.

Samael stared into the giant’s eyes set deep in hollowed sockets. God brought me here for a reason.

That makes no sense.

Nothing in my life makes sense.

You haven’t spoken with Him since Job.

Samael stomped toward the road. Why should you believe me? Haven’t you heard, I’m The Great Deceiver and Father of Lies.

You are a roaring lion that prowls around seeking someone to devour.

He may have been a fine apostle, but Paul was a fool.

Fool or not, perhaps the woman at the revival would have lived if she took his advice and put on God’s armor.

Are you going to give me a Bible lesson every day?

It might do you good, Cresil said.

I wouldn’t count on it.

Cresil scratched an eyebrow, dandruff flakes falling onto his shirt. Did the woman know anything about the other evangelist, this Brother Silas?

I don’t think so.

Must you still find him?

That is the course on which I’m charted.

On which you have been placed.

So it seems. Samael scanned the horizon. You do not have to accompany me.

Lucifer, I have—

Samael.

Cresil wiped sweat from his forehead onto his sleeve. Samael … I’ve known you since the flood. You saved my life.

And later watched you die.

That’s true, I got old, Cresil said, but you still bring me out of the spirit world from time to time.

For protection, Lucifer said.

Then let me protect you now.

Lucifer considered his words for a moment. Then come if you must, but know this—I have no understanding of our purpose here.

They returned to the road. Cresil walked a step behind, his elongated shadow stretching east. Dust swirled past and grated like sandpaper. The land beyond the road lay buried in rolling dunes. An abandoned farmhouse bowed toward the earth, sand rising to the windows. The blades of a windmill hissed as static electricity crackled across the metal in small balls of blue fire. To the north, a brown wave swept over the dunes and plummeted toward the house with the sound of thunder.

Cresil moved alongside him. What the hell?

Jackrabbits. They’ve taken over the plains, devouring whatever vegetation they can find.

The jackrabbits came by the thousands. They crashed through the abandoned farm and continued across the road in a flurry of pounding feet.

Who would want to live in such a place?

Sunlight sank far into Samael’s eyes, causing amber specks in the grey irises to glisten. They call them Okies.

What kind of name is Okie? They must be the dumbest humans on earth.

Samael remembered the worshipers inside the revival tent. The majority were poor farmers, desperate for a miracle to save them from the blowing dust. The men dressed in faded overalls and long-sleeved shirts rolled to the elbows. Hours in the sun turned their skin as brown as the Oklahoma dirt they plowed. The women wore their Sunday best—long dresses adorned in floral patterns—ignoring the truth of their nightmarish existence. Better to live in denial than consider what the next day might bring.

The land has not always been like this. Not long ago crops grew where sand now blows.

What happened? Cresil asked.

’Cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat of it all the days of your life.’

It’s not your fault God cursed Adam.

Samael hawked up dusty phlegm and spit into a patch of weeds. He wiped spittle onto the back of his hand. Everything that goes wrong around here is my fault.

In the distance, six bronzed riders crossed the road on pinto stallions. The bare-chested men wore buckskin breechcloths and leggings. Tufts of long onyx hair flowed from beneath headdresses decorated with eagle feathers and ermine tails. They floated over the earth like morning mist, devoid of solid form.

Cresil edged forward and motioned with his square chin. Do you see something?

A scene from the invisible world.

I’ve never been able to view the great beyond while human.

Come on, Samael said, we can make several miles before sundown.

They continued west beneath the wheeling sky until the light faded and grey settled upon the land, transforming the dunes into ghostly white waves. A boundless dark serpent slithered down from the north to follow their path. The tracks stretched toward the horizon before vanishing in shadow.

Samael spotted a circle scribbled in chalk on one of the sagging telephones poles that paralleled the road. He pointed to the marker. A bindle stiff drew that. The white line next to the circle means there’s a hospitable jungle nearby.

Hospitable jungle?

A hobo camp where they might feed you.

Cresil’s pace quickened. Do you really think so?

A water tower rose above the plain near the railroad tracks. Two fires burned close to the tower base. Samael found a path through the dust. The stench of human waste, decaying rubbish, and wood smoke carried on the wind. He paused at the edge of the jungle. Cresil waved a hand in front of his face. What’s that smell?

They call it hobo perfume.

Let’s hope their food tastes better than the camp smells.

The water tower divided the jungle into two camps. South of the tower, four people—including a blonde woman and a high-school-aged girl with auburn curls—hunched over a small fire, their attention fixed on the crackling flames. To the north, five men sat on blankets near a fire that burned inside an oil drum; their ragged clothes were soiled with dust and grease, and spotted black from wood sparks. Junk covered the ground—utensils fabricated from used kerosene and lard cans, frying pans made out of busted shovel blades, and boxcar doors fashioned into tables and set on railroad ties. A large boiling can hung suspended over the fire, the tang of mulligan stew wafting from inside.

The men followed their approach with weary eyes. A middle-aged bindle stiff pushed off the ground. He ran grimy fingers across his bald scalp. His gazed lifted to Cresil’s face.

You’re the biggest son of a bitch I ever seen. How tall are ya, boy?

Seven feet, Samael answered, edging closer to the fire.

Seven feet, sweet Jesus, said a man in his twenties with a strawberry birthmark on his neck. He turned to the bindle stiff sitting beside him. Have you ever seen anything like that, Joe?

The man looked Cresil up and down through red, glassy eyes. Saw a giant in a freak show once, but he weren’t like this fella. Your daddy must’ve been a Texan like Slim here. He pointed the stem of his pipe at the man with the birthmark. Done seen some big bastards in Texas.

Cresil stared at the ground. My mother was a philistine and my father a demon.

The bindle stiff standing near Cresil slapped his thigh and snorted. We must be kin. My mama was a whore in New Orleans and my daddy a grifter. He extended a hand to Samael. Name’s Boxcar Bob, but ‘round here it’s just Boxcar.

I’m Samael, and this is Cresil.

Samael and Cresil huh. I won’t forget those names. Boxcar pointed to his companions. The fella with shifty eyes is Mexican Jack. Watch him close. Jack killed a cinder sifter last year in Nebraska. Dropped him off a rattler one night. Poor stiff slammed head first into a cow’s ass.

Always thought he had shit for brains, Mexican Jack said with a sly grin.

An’ this fella with rotgut on his breath is Whiskey Joe. His mama says he was born drunk. If he ain’t drinkin’ he’s smoking that damn pipe of his.

Boxcar moved down the line. "This fella with the birthmark is Texas Slim. He once spit out the eyes of a copperhead with tobacky juice.

An’ this youngin’, Boxcar pointed to a young man sitting with his legs pulled tight against his chest, is Pretty Boy. His jocker died, now he’s bunker shy. Done told him none of us is pervs. Still, with Betty gone, it’s harder to control the urge.

Samael gazed into the doe eyes of the boy and then at Boxcar. Betty?

Boxcar fished a flask from inside his coat, screwed off the top, and took a long slug. Hooker from Tulsa. Let us pop her for a nickel.

She’s a garbage can, Whiskey Joe said. And her pussy smelled like molded cheese.

Boxcar stashed the flask into a pocket. That didn’t stop ya from taking a nibble.

Whiskey Joe’s chin sank to his chest as the other men laughed.

The way you fellas are dragging your piles, I’d say you’ve been walking a bit. Boxcar’s gaze traveled over Cresil. And flying light at that.

Samael gestured toward a coffee pot. Mind if we have some?

Boxcar turned to the young bindle stiff. Pretty Boy, make yourself useful and fetch these fellas some joe.

Pretty Boy rolled onto his knees and stood. He limped to a pile of used soup cans, picked out a couple, and filled them with steaming coffee. Here you go, he said, his gaze never rising above their chests.

Samael touched the hot can to his lips. What happened to the boy?

Boxcar returned to his blanket and sank with a groan. Pretty Boy and Mexican Jack tried stealing a chicken a few days back. Farmer caught Pretty Boy with buckshot in the ankle. He’ll be all right, not like Lucky Pete there.

Samael followed Boxcar’s gaze to a man lying on the ground a few yards from the group. Curled in a fetal position, his back to the fire, the man’s body convulsed every few seconds as a raspy cough rattled inside his chest.

What’s his problem?

Old fella is gonna be cashing in soon. No tellin’ what ails him. Maybe ate too much dust.

Why don’t you take him to a doctor?

Boxcar tugged on an earlobe. Who got money for a croaker? Better he dies here among friends. Boxcar waved at the ground. Y’all sit if you like. None of us got circus bees.

Texas Slim spat tobacco juice over his shoulder and reached up to scratch his head. We keep ourselves real clean around here, can’t ya tell?

Samael turned to Cresil.

We can spend the night. Boxcar told the truth, Mexican Jack is the only killer here and he won’t give us trouble.

Good, I don’t have to maim anyone. Cresil’s attention shifted to the boiling kettle. I’m hungry.

You’re always hungry.

Samael eased onto the ground near Boxcar. Is it all right if my friend has some of your stew?

Pretty Boy, fetch ‘em some mulligan.

Samael touched Boxcar on the sleeve. None for me, thank you.

You sure?

Yes.

Boxcar shrugged. You hear that, Pretty Boy?

The young bindle stiff nodded.

Where you fellas headed? Whiskey Joe asked.

Samael picked up a stick and traced the number 666 in the dirt. West.

California?

Texas Slim spat again and wiped his mouth on his forearm. The sun always shines in California. Man can sleep with the moon for a blanket, then toss a shoe into an orange tree next morning and get breakfast. Those folks are headed to California. He gestured toward the people sitting at the smaller fire.

Samael glanced over his shoulder. What’s their story?

Boxcar pulled a cigarette butt from his jacket pocket. City folks. Father lost work and they started west. Ran into a bull and busted their tin can. No money, no car, and no hope. Now they plan to nail a drag and head to California. Find work in the fields. But they ain’t gonna make it.

Why?

`No shine on the father’s lilies. Man without calloused hands ain’t worked hard in his life. He’s a split finger and won’t last a week in the fields. Not only that, he’s draggin’ two muffins along. Tracks ain’t no place for women.

Younger one’s cute as a bug, Mexican Jack said.

Boxcar nodded. Yep, and half the stiffs in this jungle want to be pitching woo with that cherry.

Only half? Texas Slim said, producing laughter among the men.

Cresil dropped onto the dirt beside Lucifer, holding his can of stew and a bent spoon. I’d like to be with that girl myself. Perhaps when everyone is asleep I can—

Samael glared at the giant. Put that thought out of your mind. It’s not going to happen. We’re looking for an evangelist, Samael said, goes by the name of Brother Silas.

Boxcar lit the cigarette butt and took a pull. You fellas mission stiffs? I’m heading to Los Angeles myself, plan to winter at the Sal.

No, we’re looking for a miracle.

Sounds like you need the Pope, not some Bible ranter, Texas Slim said.

Samael took a sip of coffee and licked his lips. Do you want to know the difference between a bindle stiff and the Pope? If the Pope squatted beside the road and crapped, his followers would fall to their knees and proclaim it holy shit. If you did the same thing they’d shove your face in it.

All of the bindle stiffs laughed except Whiskey Joe, who muttered that it was dangerous to mock a man of God.

So, what brought you boys onto the road? Samael asked.

Boxcar blew out a wavering smoke ring. Don’t rightly know anymore. One thing leads to another until before you know it, ten years gone by.

Wife drove me to the rails, Whiskey Joe whispered as he wrung his hands. Told me to give up the drink. Truth is, I was so dizzy for that doll, I tried to stop. Gave it up for almost three hours. She walked out and I started beating my way on the trains. Tried to find work. Nobody wants to hire a drunk. Then I went an’—

Shut up Joe, Mexican Jack said, they ain’t wanting to hear your ghost story.

A throaty rumble carried from the road and the men became quiet, their attention drawn to the sound of squealing brakes.

Boxcar ground out the cigarette butt. Ford Model 18.

It’s the laws. Mexican Jack stashed something into his bindle.

Car doors slammed and a pair of white beams cut through the darkness. Two cops walked down the path into the jungle.

Christ. Boxcar stood. Looks like we got a couple of town clowns heading our way.

Whiskey Joe dusted off his pants. You think they’re gonna run us out?

Nah, they’d have brought more cops for that, Boxcar said.

Samael pushed onto one knee and slowly uncoiled. Cresil followed his lead.

Don’t worry, Cresil, these men will be gone soon enough.

The cops wore navy trousers and powder-blue collar coats, with Sam Brown belts and shoulder straps and eight-point hats mashed onto their heads. They broke into the light cast by the fire and turned off their flashlights, which they slipped into loops on their belts. One held a shotgun. The other stroked a club.

Boxcar leaned toward Samael. Watch out for the cop carrying the oak towel. He’s lookin’ to rub a man down. I tell you that cop’s a finger. Seen him before—Dewey County jail, beating a tramp.

The cop holding the club stepped closer. He glared from beneath the brim of his hat. Get your asses over here, stinking bums. His gaze shifted to the family standing near the other fire. You too, move it.

The family trudged over to join the bindle stiffs, and together they formed a ragged circle around the cops, hands jammed into their pockets.

How can we help you officers? Boxcar asked.

The cop came nose to nose with him. You’ve been locked up in County before.

Boxcar smirked. You got yourself a camera eye.

And you’ll have two black eyes if you don’t watch your tongue. He waved the club. Now you fucking tramps line up so my friend can keep an eye on you. And if one of you bastards gets out of line, you’ll be eating lead.’

Watch ‘em, Tom, the shotgun-wielding cop called, they’re a hardboiled lot.

The cop strolled to the end of the line and stopped in front of Pretty Boy. Someone attacked a lady today. A hallelujah peddler. And I think one of you did it.

We ain’t that whacky, Texas Slim said.

The cop rushed over and slammed his club into Texas Slim’s side. He dropped with a moan. Anyone else care to sling the bull?

Samael stepped forward.

Get your ass back in line, the cop said with a snarl as he walked to Samael.

Samael stood firm, his gaze fixed on the cop’s eyes.

I’m gonna’ slap this towel against your bean! the cop shouted, spit flying.

I wouldn’t count on that, Officer Burns.

The cop rocked back on his heels. You say something?

You think you’re a big man with your badge and gun. What you are is the dirt beneath my boots. I’ve seen men like you for thousands of years, Roman centurions who prodded with spears, French soldiers threatening with bayonets.

He glanced over his shoulder at the other cop. You hear that, Henry?

The cop with the shotgun shrugged. I didn’t hear anything.

Samael stepped forward, drawing so close he could smell onion rings on the cop’s breath. Go back to the diner, Officer Burns, and take your dirty little book with you. The one your brother-in-law brought from Mexico with the pictures of women and donkeys. The book you smuggle into that narrow bathroom stall, where you hide behind a locked door and masturbate. Better yet, go home to Molly, who found your book of dirty pictures and now fantasizes about fucking your German Shepherd. Hurry, before it’s too late. Go now. She’s staring