The Suicide Motor Club by Christopher Buehlman Page A

mouth under the whiskey and he’d get a little scared and start tryin’ hard to stand up and push me off and he’d be surprised that he couldn’t stop me and I’d open up his throat and drink. Because as strong as he was, I’m stronger now. And as good as those days were, these nights are better, and the reason is blood and blood and blood. No shine, no pussy, and no love of Jesus ever tasted as good as the dirtiest nigger junkie’s blood, and that’s how it is. And that’s all right. Life, or whatever this is, is all right.
    â€”
    â€œBUT I KNOW IN MY BRAIN THAT IT AIN’T THE SAME AS BEIN’ HOT MEAT AND twenty-three. I know you want you a . . .
promotion
, and that might could happen, but you should enjoy the ride where you are now. There’s time for the other, and there ain’t no takin’ that back.”
    â€œYeah,” Woods said, but he thought,
    And as soon as you turn me you don’t have a daybitch, and who’s gonna find your knocked-down barns and rusty old junkyards? Who’s gonna ditch your skins and carry your shitty bags of clothes? Who’s gonna pitch a pup tent in the field across the way and watch your asses through the scope of his Garand? I’m stuck here till one a’ you eats sunshine or you find another sucker to drive that truck.
    â€œThat’s right, old hoss,” Luther said, and, as was often the case between them, Woods wasn’t sure if Luther had read his mind or if he was just talking. He knew they could put thoughts in your head, but could they reach in and fish them out?
    You know what I’m thinking, you dirty old redneck? You dead old possum-fucker?
    Luther looked at him.
    There’s worse things than fuckin’ possum
popped into Woods’s head, but he wasn’t sure if Luther put that there or if he thought it himself. Either way, it was true.
    Woods looked at the woman on the porch swing next to him. He was tempted to pick up her wrist and see if she was getting stiff already, but he didn’t want to let Luther know any more than he already might. He knew Woods disposed of their leavings; he might ask where and how, but he never asked what happened to them before. Woods liked the look of this woman, with her hawkish face freckled with dried blood, her half-lidded eyes that seemed to be watching something in the middle distance, something he couldn’t see yet. Her eyelashes looked like bits of plastic or rubber, like the nibs on new bike tires. He might pull those off first.
    He began to feel a pleasant pressure under his fly.
    This was not like after prom, when the girl with the green sequined dress had worked and worked with hand and mouth in the backseat of his borrowed car until her lipstick was wrecked and his thighs were covered in cool spit and she cried and pleaded to know what was wrong with her. This was not like it was with Donna, who would come home to their shared studio apartment behind the garage after her shift at the diner and swear at him as a limp-dick and a queer and make him lick her until she held her breath and turned purple and came. The turning purple was the only part that turned him on, made him twitch just a little, but by then it was too late and Donna had gotten up to stand in front of the icebox and eat from the bag of vinylly french fries she had brought home from work, lit up by the fridge light, her ludicrous false eyelashes blinking with every third chew. He had been able to get off while she was gone, imagining her shot in the head andthrilling to the desecration of putting it in the hole. Then he had met Calcutta, pretty as a living girl, cool as a dead one, her whole body a wound. Calcutta was a walking desecration. She shouldn’t be moving, but she was. He could take her with her head in a bathtub the whole time, her smile beaming under the water like a mermaid’s smile, like a drowned nymph. He could strangle her as tight as he