And just as the four pairs of microlegs moved the tardi-grades in the direction of the decomposing protozoans, the thing that no one could explain pulled him in the direction of the least resistance.
Who understands—in an earthly sense—the mysteries of faith? There are those phenomena that are unknowable, but made conceivable to reason by one's spiritual soul.
Those who believe in God are in very real touch with the supernatural, mystical, yet incontrovertible truth of a holy divinity. The Lord's invisible but certain presence chums out of the believer's heart, appealing to the noble aesthetic sense that is the sum total of one's inner reality.
For Daniel Bunkowski the inner essence is altogether different. Where someone else has the Immaculate Conception, for example, he has this—the thing that lets him see.
This is the truth of what Chaingang believes: that an unseen, unknown watcher clicks a hidden field cam loaded with Ektachrome 400 stock, shooting with one one-hundredth-second shutter speed at f11, using 200-mm telephoto, and he is going to take those fingers that hold that camera and RIP THEM FROM THE ARMS AND THEN RIP THE ARMS FROM THE HANDS AND THEN RIP THE HANDS FROM THE MONKEY SOCKETS and that is what he truly believes in the madness of this cold, wet dawn.
There is a prison term for a con who has an ability to work himself free from handcuffs—even when “black-boxed.” The phrase sits on Chaingang's mental shoulder and smiles: monkey pawed, such an inmate is called. For a souvenir he will take a pair of these monkey paws. That is Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski's inner reality.
He was passing through Briarwood on his way toward Tennessee. He'd decided he'd shag a motel, maybe give some thought to an appropriately déclassé rental of some kind—there were ways to remain away from the transaction, but these ways all required elaborate setups and time. He liked the looks of the isolated phone and stopped the Delta, heaved his bulk out from the groaning scat, and splashed through a deep puddle toward a bank of vending machines and telephones.
He stopped in front of a large soft-drink unit, almost blocking it from view as he spread his massive poncho even further, reaching in as if to get coins. He was reaching in for his tubular pick. Great for coin ops like commercial washers and soda dispensers. He carefully inserted the business end, adjusting the tension with the knurled collar as neoprene O-rings held the feeler picks in place. He was a superior locksmith, among his other talents, and could penetrate a simple center-spaced TL with his mind on autopilot. He swung out the coin tray and helped himself. Took a bottle of cold soda and closed the machine, going to the nearby wall phone to dial.
“East Coast Big and Tall,” the woman's voice announced after a few rings.
“Howdy, could I speak to a salesperson, please?"
“Surely. One moment."
“Yes?"
Chaingang placed an order with the salesman who answered. Referring to a catalog number in his head. Charging it to Mr. W. W. Conway, who had just rented a tiny mail drawer. His order would be shipped via general delivery, Briarwood, which would be routed from the nearest small town USPS office.
Mr. Conway had been referred by a longtime satisfied customer of the eastern company that specialized in clothing for very tall or very stout males. He assured the nice man that his remittance would be immediately forthcoming. Thanked him. Hung up, and went into the store.
The place with the handy machines outside was called a Mini-Mart. He waddled inside to shoplift, more out of habit and meanness than need. The beast always carried a substantial sum of money tucked away for emergency usage, and true to form, Dr. Norman had seen to it that his duffel bag's money stash had been replenished. But Chaingang shoplifted out of principle.
Had he been born with a taste for money or material goods, rather than blood and vengeance, he would have been a master burglar or armed robber. He was a superbly talented “natural” thief, and an awesome shoplifter.
“Hi-dee, Kenny hep you?” it sounded like the clerk said, eyeing this stinking giant from behind the counter.
Chaingang ignored him. No, Mr. Monkey Man, you cannot hep me. Kenny hep yourself? He examined the prices of things he didn't want, eyes immediately clocking the surveillance mirror, and positioning himself so that one of his hands was blocked by his bulk.
The master of playacting and misdirection held up a can of ravioli with his left hand, swiping chili with his right.
None of this stuff looked particularly edible. Berthalou Irby had spoiled him for these lesser culinary offerings. He wanted to go back to the Irby house, bag Mrs. Irby, shag the retard, and eat the rest of the stuff in the basement. It was a very real and strong pull, the kind that sometimes went over the line and nagged him into enacting a particularly attractive fantasy.
He picked up a package of American cheese, knowing Kenny Hepyou was watching his actions very closely, enjoying himself thoroughly as he dropped a packet of smoked ham into his voluminous chain pocket.
“You got any trella crane?” he rumbled.
“Beg pardon."
“Trella scrate. Where do you keep it?"
“Cellophane? You mean like Handi-Wrap?"
“Heinie wipe.” He opened a jelly jar and forced the top back at a tilt.
“It's over yonder. First aisle."
“Somebody done opened this here grape jelly, ‘n’ stuck their dick innit or whatever, ‘n’ screwed the top back on against the threads.” He was moving down the aisle toward the clerk. Feeling dangerous and lucky.
“What's that now?"
“Somebody dicked in your jelly back there yonder. Top looks like it's got trella scration all over it. Thought you'd like to know.” He shrugged, ever the helpful patron.
The clerk went back and saw the jelly.
“Kids come in here. They probably done it."
“Yids? Uh-huh.” Chaingang hadn't had this much fun in a long time. Not without actually hurting someone.
“Did you find the Handi-Wrap?"
“Why would I want to do that?” Chaingang asked, genuinely appearing to be puzzled, having just shoved two stroke books up under his jacket.
“I thought you said you was wanting some Handi-Wrap and—"
It was too much for him. He made a coughing noise and the huge tractor-strength steel snake uncoiled and put the clerk out of his misery.
Instantly, the second he saw the poor man fall into the potato chip bags, he was irritated with himself. He had forgotten, uncharacteristically, that he was driving a semilegal Delta ‘88 he'd gone to a great deal of trouble to acquire. Now he'd just put his ride, his hide, and his clean tags at risk so he could hurt Kenny. Not smart.
He hit NO SALE and cleaned out the big stuff, pulling the tray up and seeing checks and—surprisingly—a gold coin. He was always finding interesting treats. He tucked the small gold piece away as a lucky charm, went around and checked Kenny's wallet, and felt a tiny surge of pleasure seeing that it contained nearly six hundred dollars.
Moving with a burst of speed, he chugged out the door and hurled his quarter ton of weight into the poor front seat of the old car, grinding the ignition to life, and pulling out into the northbound lane. There were no witnesses. No traffic to speak of. But of course, the sky eye man would be duly recording his moves. Of no consequence.
He'd ordered, and within a few minutes, paid for, his little going-away present to himself. Later, when he'd had his fill of this community, he'd have a nice, fresh get-out-of-town ensemble all ready and waiting for him.
At the next roadside phone that presented itself, a Mr. Conway dialed—strictly by coincidence—Perkins Real Estate, calling from the Tinytown phone book chained to the wall. Asking about rental properties.