Evangeline Page 14

  “Hello, Evangeline,” I smiled at my reflection. “Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.”

  Deputy Gottschalk’s staggered work schedule had him home that evening; a big wrench in my plans since Angeline was still officially grounded. On his off days Stepfather enjoyed chasing dinner with a few shots of pornography, which meant I’d have to sneak out of the house, take care of business, and get home again without getting busted. To complicate matters, I had my heart set on a weapon--a very particular weapon--that Stumpy kept stowed in his gun cabinet.

  As I left the bedroom and descended the stairs to the kitchen, I could hear the man ranting as usual, lamenting all that had gone wrong in his self-centered little world. His lawyer friend had ditched him, the L3K case was running him ragged, and he had no one to complain to but a wife and stepdaughter who were “thick as molasses”. Meanwhile his biggest problem stood in the kitchen entry just a few feet away.

  “I d-d-don’t feel so good,” I announced, leaning against the door jamb and looking faint. “I think I’m going to buh-be sick.”

  It was yet another Oscar worthy performance by your humble servant. I’m telling you, Meryl Streep had nothing on me.

  “Well don’t puke in here for christsakes,” barked Stumpy. “Get your diseased ass back upstairs and stick your head in the toilet.”

  Mother was standing at the stove in her tattered Betty Crocker outfit, studying me curiously. It was weird, but I almost felt the woman was looking right through me-- straight into the soul of the imposter wearing her daughter’s skin. I shrugged off that odd sensation and left the kitchen.

  Halfway up the staircase I paused to listen. The scrape and clatter of utensils and dishware told me that supper was continuing as usual, so I stole back downstairs and scurried into the main room. I found what I was looking for in Stepfather’s gun cabinet; Grandpa Gottschalk’s 1949 Winchester Model 21.

  That old man had traded a perfectly good mule for that double barrel shotgun, and I intended to make damn sure he got his money’s worth.

  The escape from the farmhouse was not without its anxious moments. With Stepfather down in the main room, drinking beer and pleasuring himself to Anus in Wonderland, I snuck down from the attic with an old cookie tin, the macramé purse, Elvira’s wig and wearing a red hooded mack over Elvira’s black dress. It was a raincoat Mother once wore when she was young and still unafraid of the great outdoors.

  Following a brief detour to the bedroom to fetch the shotgun and a box of shells, I paused on the stairwell for a peek into the main room. I could hear substandard porn acting coming from Wonderland, but saw no sign of Stepfather. Thinking the coast was clear, I took a few cautious steps down the stairs then went rigid at the sound of a beer tab popping. In a matter of seconds Stumpy emerged from the kitchen sipping a can of Budweiser.

  Friends, my heart slammed into my throat. All Deputy Gottschalk had to do was glance up and he would have caught the L3K flat-footed and red-handed, with Grandpa’s shotgun in one hand and a fresh load of shit in her panties. But that lawman never saw me. True to his totally inept existence, Super Cop walked right past and disappeared into the main room.

  Once I’d exhaled, I snuck the rest of the way downstairs and slipped out the front door. With any luck at all your faithful servant would be done with business and back in bed before that deputy sheriff ever missed me.

  Darkness had come to the Heartland as I drove south through a cold drizzle with Grandpa’s shotgun tucked under the seat and the cookie tin resting beside me. It was going to be a long and miserable night for those attending Willowdale’s big game-- but for Billy Quinn the worst was yet to come.

  As the Ford passed the outskirts of Hainesville, I caught a glimpse of an old friend standing on the edge of a withered cornfield. I hit the brakes, backed up and turned the truck so the headlights lit up the scarecrow. I didn’t know when Grandpa’s old Winchester had been fired last, and I wanted to avoid any unexpected hiccups. Better to test that weapon now than be surprised later when Billy Quinn was locked in my sights.

  I climbed from the cab, slipped the weapon from under the seat and broke open its hinge action to insert two shotgun shells into the breech. Once the barrels were snapped back into place, I set the selector to fire both chambers and tromped down to the cornfield. Ten feet from Mr. Scarecrow, I cocked the weapon, took aim at his rotted noggin and pulled the trigger.

  BAWOOOMMM! The shotgun roared and ol’ pumpkin head was blasted to pulp.

  Grandpa’s old Winchester had passed with flying colors. I was locked and ready to unload on The Asshole. I kicked out the empties and was loading fresh shells when a porch light blinked on at the distant farmhouse. It was time to skedaddle.

  All the streets around Willowdale High School were jammed with parked vehicles for the big game, but I couldn’t locate Billy’s pussy wagon anywhere among them. So I squeezed the truck into a tight spot and began a long walk toward the field through a spitting rain. The ticket booth was unmanned when I arrived--the game had been in progress for more than an hour--so I walked right on through and headed for the glowing lights beyond the slope.

  Hard to believe, but the cacophony of sound that had assaulted Angeline a few weeks before was even louder this time around. As I crested the slope, brass instruments were blaring, drums were banging, people were cheering and players were running about the field like crazed chickens.

  I made my way to the front of the bleachers and worked my way up the first aisle. Before I could find a seat, I heard a familiar “woof, woof, woof” coming from above. Several rows higher sat Billy’s three stooges, barking at the girl they assumed was Angeline Gottschalk-- the pathetic mouse they took such pleasure in torturing.

  Well, my friends, as Father used to say, never assume anything. It’ll only make an ass of u and me. Those three jackasses needed to learn that lesson, so I continued climbing the steps. As I passed the acne-pocked bastard sitting closest to the aisle, I slammed a sudden fist straight and hard into his grinning puss.

  “Fuck!” he blurted out, clutching his nose.

  Blood came seeping through his fingers, so his buddy quickly helped him to his feet and led him away to find medical attention. I didn’t pause to wish them luck, instead climbing higher until I found an open seat near the top of the bleachers. As I settled in, I noticed the last of Billy’s dick-suckers glaring at me from below. Guess I was supposed to be intimidated. Instead I flipped him the middle finger.

  Yup, boys and girls, things were going to be a whole lot different ‘round Willowdale High from now on. No more picking on Angeline Gottschalk. There was a new sheriff in town.

  “Excuse me.”

  A young father was trying to squeeze past me with his snot-nosed kid. The kid was grabbing his crotch and whining about having to “go tinkle”. Just as I stepped into the aisle to let them pass, the heavens unzipped and tinkled all over the crowd instead. That sudden downpour had everyone bouncing down from their seats like Pachinko balls to seek shelter beneath the stands. Father and son went with them, but I tugged the raincoat’s hood further over my head and stayed put. After all, the boys on the field didn’t seem to mind a little inclement weather. Why should I?

  From my high perch I scanned the field until I located number 51. For the remainder of the game I watched Billy Quinn like a jungle cat stalking a wildebeest on the Serengeti. God, how I hungered for that juicy sonofabitch. I wanted him so bad I could taste him.

  Before I knew it the crowd on the opposite side of the field was counting down the seconds, then issuing a mighty roar as the clock struck zero. Apparently the previously undefeated Willowdale Buffalos had lost the game. There would be no trip to Lincoln this year. Dreams had been dashed and the hometown fans were beside themselves. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

  Me? I didn’t give a rat’s ass. There were more important things on my mind than a stupid football game. I made my way down the aisle, keeping an eye glued to Billy Quinn at all
times. The boy’s helmet was off now, and his redheaded fuck-buddy, dressed in her blue and gold cheerleader jacket, joined him as he walked off the field.

  “Angel!”

  I glanced over my shoulder and spotted Caleb Quinn being swept along by the crowd. I ignored his wave, instead ducking low and squeezing through a maze of umbrellas. When I came up for air again, I found myself behind Billy and Brianna-- close enough to hear the sound of the boy’s cleats clacking on the ribbon of blacktop that led to the parking lot.

  At one point The Asshole glanced over his shoulder at the mooing crowd and I dropped my head and kept my eyes pinned to the ground. When I glanced up again he was gone. After a brief and frantic search, I spotted him moving with Brianna Dresner toward a side lot. Billy handed her a set of keys and she scurried off through the rain. I followed that bitch as far as the pussy wagon, then watched as she opened the passenger’s door and climbed inside.

  “Whatcha doing over here?”

  Caleb had come up behind me, his long hair matted by rain, his drenched uniform discolored by mud. He glanced toward his brother’s van then back again, studying me with suspicion. But I wasn’t showing my hand. Not this time.

  “You asked m-m-me to come.” I stammered innocently.

  At the moment a group of laughing teens passed by. “Too bad, Willowdale,” one of them jeered. “Better luck next year.”

  Caleb ignored them, and once they’d moved from earshot he said to me, “Where’s your truck parked?”

  I gestured some obscure direction.

  “I need to shower and change,” he said. “Shouldn’t take more than fifteen-twenty minutes. Meet me outside the gym and we’ll talk, okay?

  “Okay.”

  It seemed Caleb had something more to say, but changed his mind and trotted off toward the gym. My friends, that boy would have a long wait, because I had no intention of meeting Prince Charming unless it was at the business end of Grandpa’s shotgun.

  I didn’t bother tailing The Asshole once his van left the parking lot. I had a pretty good idea where that so-called pussy wagon was headed. Steel Creek Reservoir was where I’d find Billy Quinn… and where I’d end that bastard once and for all. Instead of heading north for the reservoir, I drove straight to the mom and pop Texaco on County Highway 108 as the wipers beat back a steady rain. Normally that stretch of road was patrolled by Deputy Gottschalk, but the lawman was off duty that night and I felt safe… as did, I’m sure, those waitresses he enjoyed harassing at the diner down the road.

  I parked beside the gas station and entered the restroom carrying the macramé purse and the cookie tin. When the light switched on, that squalid little space was bathed in a sickly, yellowish glow. I bolted the door, flipped down the toilet lid and set the cookie tin atop it. Then, using the cracked mirror mounted above the sink, I began my transformation-- first Elvira’s makeup, then the beehive wig, followed by my piece de resistance.

  I lifted the cookie tin from the toilet seat and was about to pull the lid when there was a knock at the door. A gruff voiced called out, “Someone in there?”

  “Give me a minute,” I answered.

  “We’re closing in five. Wrap it up.”

  “I’m wrapping.”

  I pressed my ear to the door and waited another few seconds before getting back to business, prying the lid off the tin and removing the neckwear inside.

  Holding both ends of a leather boot lace, I tied it about my neck then paused to admire myself in the mirror. In all modesty, friends--and despite the crack that ran through my reflection--I must tell you the effect was quite stunning. This wasn’t some poorly crafted piece of cheap costume jewelry, nor some gratuitous display of the macabre. Oh, no. This look made a bold statement, with its wooden beads, crow feathers and the four pricks I’d threaded onto the lace. What hung around my neck was more than mere fashion; more than some run-of-the-mill necklace.

  It was my dicklace.

  Okay. Once again I sense disapproval. I can almost hear your shrill voices crying out in righteous indignation, Good God, Evangeline, now you’ve gone too far! Wasn’t hacking off their penises enough? Must you flaunt them as well?! Well, dear friends, your sanctimonious voices have been heard. But before passing judgment on your humble servant, I would ask you to please consider, once more, the Ponca Indians.

  You see, back in their savage heyday, the Ponca had fashioned neckwear from the scalps of their enemies. So I ask you now; were dicks-on-a-string really any different? Granted they smelled a bit funky (the Browers and those two Halloweenies were beginning to rot) but I was proud to display my battle trophies. I’d earned those fucking pricks.

  Besides, I thought my dicklace made me look rather badass-- like a fierce Ponca warrior. And I wanted to look my intimidating best for that colossal prick up at the reservoir who would soon be hanging as my centerpiece.

  The headwaters of Steel Creek began at the Niobrara River up on the Nebraska-South Dakota border, wound southwest through Knox county and ended seven miles later at Revell Ponds-- known to the locals as Steel Creek Reservoir. The ponds were hidden behind thick underbrush and stands of cottonwoods. The only way in was a hardpack dirt road that began where 507th Avenue ended, skirted the edge of the reservoir then petered out in scrub about a hundred yards distant. Somewhere in that secluded stretch I’d find Billy and Brianna doing the nasty in the aptly-named pussy wagon.

  So as not to spook my quarry, I entered the reservoir with headlights off. But driving through that heavy rain and country dark was nerve-jangling, so I crept along the road at a snail’s pace with my nose pressed close to the windshield lest I run the Ford straight into the pond.

  As the road began veering toward the thicket, a dark shape against the darker water caught my eye. Billy’s van was parked on the edge of the bank facing out toward the pond. If not for the faint glow of its dome light, I might have driven right past it. I jammed the transmission into reverse and swung the truck until it was facing the back of the van.

  My entire body now tingled with nervous excitement. Here, at long last, was the moment I’d fantasized about; the chance to avenge my sister and punish The Asshole for all his grievous sins. I swear to you, friends, as I sat in that idling Ford, I could feel Angeline’s pain coursing through my veins with every beat of my wildly thumping heart. And the more I thought about the cruel sonofabitch inside that van and the hurt he’d caused her, the faster my heart raced and the more my rage grew.

  You know, there’s an unwritten rule that insists one should never come knockin’ when the van is a’rockin’. But this was no time for social niceties. My plan had been to throw open the back doors, press the shotgun to Billy’s head and blow it to smithereens like that rotting pumpkin in the cornfield. But my rage trumped reason and patience went right out the window.

  Fuck the plan. I wanted The Asshole now!

  I flipped on the headlights, gripped the steering wheel and hit the gas. The F-100 jumped and roared toward the pussy wagon. I braced for impact, unleashing a furious primal scream… “AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

  The truck hit that van like Moby Dick slamming his head into the Pequod-- a jarring collision that tossed me like a rag doll into the windshield and momentarily scrambled my brains. I felt the warm blood running down from my forehead where it had smacked the glass.

  Boys and girls let that be a lesson. Always buckle your seatbelt.

  The impact had pushed the van closer to the water’s edge. But I wasn’t done yet. Once I found my bearings I jammed the shifter into reverse, backed up the truck, then buckled my seatbelt and, with knuckles white on the steering wheel, floored the gas again.

  “AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

  This time the Ford rammed that pussy wagon so hard it went right over the bank and straight into the pond.

  As the van settled into the dark water, I jumped from the pickup, grabbed the macramé purse and slid the shotgun from under the seat. The impact had mangled the Ford’s front end, busted one headlight and turn
ed the other at a cocked angle. No time to assess the damage, though, I had to get down to the water’s edge to greet the two young lovers.

  The van’s rear doors pushed open against the weight of water and Brianna Dresner popped out first, stripped to the waist and screaming hysterically. The girl thrashed against the frigid waters surging into the cargo space then plunged into the pond, closely followed by her pissed off boyfriend. The Asshole was buck naked below the waist and seemed a tad upset at having his blow job interrupted. “What the fuck?!” he howled in a blind rage, looking for someone to kill. “What the fuck?!”

  I was waiting on the bank to greet the lovebirds as they came wading ashore, Grandpa’s shotgun gripped in my hands and the macramé bag slung over my head and across one shoulder. I must have been a fright, though--what with that wet lump of beehive hair tilted sideways on my head and my face streaked with blood and makeup--because when Billy saw me he stopped short in knee deep water, his flaccid cock blowing in the stiff wind.

  Despite my appearance, I tried to make my guest feel welcome. “Greetings, asshole,” I said, aiming the Winchester at his head with a cheery smile. The collision must have knocked that boy around pretty good, because one eye was nearly swollen shut and a jagged cut ran from his left shoulder down to the elbow. “In case you were wondering,” I told him, “this is a twelve gauge shotgun, fully loaded, with both barrels set to fire. So please remain still or you’ll take all the fun out of this.”

  “Please don’t hurt us,” cried Brianna, her arms wrapping a shivering body. The girl was bleeding from a broken nose and blubbering like a three year-old. I almost felt sorry for the wretched thing-- as much as anyone can feel sorry for someone who’d spread her legs for a fucking asshole.