Warpath

36

“Hello, Dick,” his slithering queer says.

I whip the car into a parking lot. Some frozen yogurt hole in the wall. A neon clown waves at me from the window and the image is not lost on me.

“How have you been?” I ask, smiling. “Healing well?”

“I have been a busy bee, Dick. A busy, busy bee.”

“You don’t say? Come home yet?” The elephant in my palm, turning slowly.

“I’ve been to a few homes, yes.”

“Boyfriends? Scared to sleep alone at night now?”

“So funny, Dick. I remember you sleeping—”

“Let’s finish this. You and me. Name the place.”

“So high school freshman of you, Dick. I bet the cheerleaders loved you.”

“Of course they did. Have you seen me? When I came around, those girls ovulated and couldn’t concentrate on anything else.” He coughs a horse laugh at that. “But I bet all the KY in the world wouldn’t help them when you came prowling. You seem to have that effect, Ursa.”

“Ahhh...so we are on a first name basis, now.”

“Indeed. Back to my original proposal. Let’s finish this.”

“I have another idea I’d like to bounce off of you: I’m gone.”

“Well, first impression is you’re a big smelly pussy.”

“Sticks and stones, Dick. My childhood in Saint Ansgar was vile, to say the least. You try staying in a town where your mom committed suicide on your first birthday and your dad spent his days putting out his cigarettes on your stomach and his nights getting drunk and making you take her place. You have no earthly fucking clue. I’m done.”

“So you had a bad childhood. Get in line. Does that give you carte blanche to rape women?”

“You’ll never understand.”

“Don’t care. This is all too little, too late. You’re a fucking rapist and murderer. Your life is forfeit. I tell you what; meet me and I will make it swift and painless. Release you from this horrible life.”

“This is a courtesy call to let you know you’ll never see me again.”

“Ursa, when you attack a woman, do you fantasize that she is your mother?” Silence. So much silence, heavy as the sun’s gravitational pull. “Your mother, the woman who chose suicide over you? Who killed herself on your birthday and allowed you to be molested and—”

“Goodbye, Dick.”

“I’ll find you. You know that, right?”

“It’s not my fault, Dick. It’s how I was made.” Click.

No caller ID. I hang up. I have the urge to walk over to that neon clown and slug him. It’s a nice fantasy and I entertain it for a moment before my phone rings again, bursting that bubble like a drain backing up.

“Glad you called back, pussy. Reconsider?” I ask.

“Rrr—Richard?” Graham says through molasses. “I—I thought this was...this was...9-1...”

“Graham? Graham what’s wrong?”

I have been a busy bee, Dick. A busy, busy bee.