Stack nodded, his hand resting on the butt of the pumpgun. It would be awkward to prime and fire it from the stool. He'd never drop them all before they got him. Maybe they would all explode. With their lifestyle, spontaneous combustion must be a a regular health hazard.
"Well, the Cav is always always always down on the 'chuggers for no reason. And you represent the Cav, so we're mixing it with you."
Shit, he was going to die.
And he hadn't figured out what the buzz was with the mad cruiser and Leona and the impaled priest yet.
"Mobil," Exxon said, "get the man a drink. Not that piss-poor firewater he's been abusing himself with all evenin'. A real drink."
Shit, shit, shit. He was going to die, but first he was going to have to drink gasoline.
Mobil was the runt of the litter. He jumped up and sat on the bar. He took Stack's glass and threw the whisky onto the floor.
"Sorry, Pedro," said Exxon.
"That's okay, boys," replied the bartender. "Jost clean op after."
Mobil took a canteen and poured pink liquid into the glass. Paraffin. He sniffed the bouquet, said "a very good year," and knocked it back.
"After a good drink," he said, "what better than a relaxing cigarette?"
He produced a pack and a fliptop lighter.
"Me, I prefer the cool, mellow taste of Sandino's, the cigarette with a longer-lasting tang and that macho muchaco whiff."
He lit the lighter, and beamed across the flame.
Stack flinched backwards as his eyebrows were singed by the fiery cloud Mobil had exhaled. It went out in an instant. Stack's face felt hot, but it was nothing compared to Slim's Gas 'n' B-B-Q.
"Caramba," said Mobil, finishing off the ad, "but dat is some wild cigarette."
"Looks like we got us a blackface entertainer," said Exxon. He used his stubby forefinger to smear the soot into Stack's face, especially around the lips and eyes. "One thing you have to say about nigras is that they sure can be entertainin', eh amigos?”
The Gaschuggers laughed in unison.
"Remember how them Voodoo Bros danced for us…"
Exxon was smiling wistfully now, remembering the good times.
"…when we strung 'em up."
Mobil had another shot of parrafin poured. He lifted it to Stack's lips, and tipped. Stack gulped, hoping the chilli had permanently done for his sense of taste. He got it down without spluttering. Mobil was waving his lighter around near his face, flicking the flame on and off.
"What kind of entertainin' do you reckon Sidney Freakin' Poitier here'd be best at, chugbuddies? Singin', dancin', acrobatics, sleight o' hand, tellin' them funny stories, mind-readin'?"
Mobil put his head uncomfortably close to Stack's and said, "no, I reckon we gots us one o' them meat-packin' pore-nographic superstuds. Them nigras 's always at it, jus' like rabbits 'r somethin'. I'll jus' bet Al Freakin' Jolson here rakes in the big bucks stickin' his tubesteak into dawgs and hawgs and French ladies and just plain dumb ole greasy holes in the wall, that's what I figger."
Mobil was getting excited. Good, that might make him careless. That might give Stack a chance.
"Mobil's a pervert, you know," said Exxon. "It's a shame, but there it is. A man can't help the way he was brung up."
Mobil was double-dyed redneck from way back—the Ozarks or somewhere—but Exxon's sneer was a put-on. Slack reckoned he might have done some time at Harvard or Yale. This was an educated panzerboy.
"My guess is that you're not a porno stud. Who'd pay to sec a skinny little thing like you pumping in the bunk with some fat whore? No, you're something more sporting. Like a jockey."
Stack didn't move.
"No? Maybe a basketball player. A lot of your tinted ethnic types bounce the ball pretty fair, I hear. Nah, you're a shortie. And you've got no coordination."
The pumpgun had been eased out from under his hand and passed to the back of the saloon. The lone 'chugger girl—a fourteen year-old with ancient eyes and a plumed pompadour was cradling it like a child.
"Does your mother know where you are?" Stack asked her.
"Freak off, faghagg!" she spat in a high, vicious, little voice.
Exxon hardballed a fist into his gut. His burns flared up, and the chilli and paraffin shifted in his stomach.
Shit, shit, shit. He was going to die with vomit in his mouth.
"Don't talk to white ladies, nigra. That's a hanging offence in this county. Why, we don't cotton much to darkies talking to dawgs. If n they start pesterin' the womenfolks, who knows where it'll all stop?"
One of the Gaschuggers—the one with the robo-claw—was black, but he wasn't upset by Exxon's speeches on racial subjects.
"I know what you are, boy. You're a fighter, ain't ya? Bare knucks, one on one, two guys bloodying each other's titties. Maybe you wear a couple of sharp rings to cut deeper."
Exxon shadowboxed in front of Stack's face, occasionally tapping him lightly on the chin or the cheeks.
"You could'a bin a contendah, Sugar Ray, instead of a bum, which is what y'are."
The big one was coming. Stack tensed his aching stomach, and gripped the bar. Mobil held his shoulders, fingers positioned like a masseur's but ready to dig in, and one of the other 'chuggers had his arms behind him. Exxon danced and punched the air.
"You see Rocky VIII, boy? I just love it when ole Sly puts Whoopi Goldberg down on the canvas and sticks it to the bitch? That's my idea of a fair fight."
Stack grit his teeth. Exxon drew his fist back and took a good shot. Stack's jaw popped, and he felt rather than tasted his mouth fill up with blood. He tried to roll with it, but he was held so that only his head could move. His skull rolled on his neck like a punchball. Everythng was shaking. His lips were mashed against his teeth, his cheek was squeezed against the bone. Blood was trickling from his nostrils.
"Ouch, that hurt," Exxon complained, holding up his hand. His knuckles were red and black with blood and soot.
"Well, looky looky looky here comes cookie, what have we got here?"
He wiped his hand on his overalls, then took an oily rag from his pocket and rubbed Stack's face. The soot came off.
"Pardonnez-moi, Trooper Damfool. We've been labourin' under a misapprehension, ain't we boys? You sure ain't a person of the negroid jungle bunny persuasion after all. You're as white as they come."
The 'chuggers laughed. The black 'chugger caressed his claw and gave a slow-burning grin. One of his teeth was inset with black dots like a die. He snapped the air with his robobit. It looked like expensive workmanship. GenTech, maybe, or Sony. He clacked his claw like a lobster.
"Such a shame. We got laws here in Welcome, Trooper. Don't you know it's an offence to impersonate a nigra? We gonna have us a trial."
The 'chuggers whooped and cheered.
"Mr Persecution?" Exxon asked.
"Yes, your honour," replied Mobil.
"Sum up the case for the State of Arizona versus Freakin' Zeroid Ratskag, here?"
Mobil shoved his thumbs under the lapels of his overalls, and strutted up and down. "Well, Your Judgeship, it seems to me that what we have here is a plain case of violation of the law. The accused ain't no nigra, that's clear as can be. But he certainly was attemptin' to deceive the good folks of this township. I calls me a witness. Call Mr Shell…"
The lobsterman stepped forward. "Present."
"Mr Shell," began Exxon, "do you promise to tell the whole truth, the only truth, the truthiest truth and nothing but the Big T truth or else Gawd come down and rip your gazebos off?"
"Ah do," Shell said in a rich bass, holding up his claw.
"Have you anything to say?"
"Yeah, Ah'd like a babycham!"
"Objection!" shouted Mobil.
"Suss-stained," said Exxon. "Witness will keep to the point."
"Sorry, your dealership," said Shell. "But it's as clear as the day is long. Honky moonfaced motherfreakin' pig whiteboy cracker candy-ass citified whelk-lovin' yellowlegs old cowhand from the Rio Grande scumsuckin' geek here is guilty as Judas and twice as dead."