The keep nodded in earnest. "And before he left, ya know what he done? He put his gun to poor June's head and made her stick her finger up his ass'n jerk him off."
"The lowdown bastard!" Balls offered.
"I cain't believe it," Dicky lamented. "And he cleaned the place out?"
"The whole week's till, like I said. Two grand's what June tolt me. Then he got clean away."
"Well, shee-it, with all them girls workin' there, they must've got a good description of the guy."
"Nope," assured the keep. "Dirty som-bitch were wearin a Wendy's bag on his head with eye-holes cut out. Don't that beat all?" and then the keep walked off to get them a pitcher.
Wait a min... Dicky's head slowly traversed on his fat neck to look right at Balls. "You?" he whispered.
Balls' grin flashed like a switch-blade in the sun. He nodded, and gestured his waist. He pulled his T-shirt up for just a second, and stuck in there under his belt was a big-ass pistol, a Webley .455.
"Jimminy Christmas, Balls!"
"Shhh. Some piece'a work, huh? I knew my Daddy'd be good fer somethin' one'a these days. See, this piece under my shirt's about the only thing he left me worth more than a pack'a butt pimples."
Dicky leaned over, keeping his voice low. "You pulled a heist in broad daylight?"
"Why ya think they call me Balls?"
The keep returned with their pitcher. Balls filled two mugs and slid one to Dicky. "Cheers, buddy."
Dicky raised his mug with a great pumpkin grin. "To our new partnership! Man, we are gonna make some money whens I get my rod on the road!"
Their glasses clinked.
Three fat young men with buzzcuts sat on the other side. "Hey, ya old putz!" one shouted to the barkeep. "Git us another pitcher, and don't make us wait till we're old as you. And also give us an order of Redneck Steak Tenders."
The barkeep smirked. "Comin' right up... "
Balls seemed cruxed. "Hey, Dicky... what the hail's Redneck Steak Tenders? I ain't never heard'a that."
"Cheapest thang on the menu."
"Yeah? Well why not we'se git us some? I'se love a good steak, ‘specially if'n its cheap."
"Naw, Balls. Trust me." Dicky pointed to the keep, who threw a handful of soda crackers onto a paper plate. Then he shot a dash of A-1 Steak Sauce on each cracker. "There ya go, fellers," he said to the fat brothers.
"Awright!" one reveled.
"Yeah, I'se thank I'll pass on that," Balls said.
The barkeep wandered back over, and pointed up to the TV. "You boys been listenin' to this crazy shit on the TV? This feller in Wisconsin?"
"Naw," Balls said. "Ain't really seen TV fer a while."
Dicky rubbed his chin. "Ya know, I think I did hear somethin', some crazy guy or some such."
The keep leaned forward. "A serial killer they'se callin' him. Name's Dahmer, a queer-boy from up north. Kilt lots'a dudes they say."
"Kilt 'em?" Balls asked. "How?"
"Some'a the worst shit you can imagine, son. He'd go inta one'a these faggot bars and start swish-talkin' with some feller, and a‘course, the feller thinks he's gonna get a fudge-packin' like they do but, see, what this Dahmer dude did was slip mickeys in their drinks ta git 'em all disorientered, then he'd take 'em back to his place."
"Yeah?" Balls goaded. "And then he fudge-packed 'em?"
"Aw, yeah, he shore did but not ‘fore doin' a shitload'a sick shit first. Lotta times he'd just plain kill 'em, and then pack their fudge. And other times he'd cut parts off 'em, and then he'd cook it and eat it. Cops found heads in the fridge, body parts all over the place, pair'a ears in a bread box."
"Shee-it!" Balls exclaimed.
Dicky smirked with distaste. "And you say he et parts of these fellas?"
"Damn straight. Admitted it. Ate a fella's whole bicep, he did, and some leg-meat cut right off the bone. Broiled it. Ate some'a their brains too."
"Fuck!" Balls exclaimed.
"And ya gotta figgure, if he ate brains, and he was queer, you know damn well he must've eaten some'a their peckers, too."
"Bet he slapped 'em right down on a grill'n cooked 'em like hot dogs," Dicky speculated.
"Bet he did," Balls added, intrigued.
The keep wagged a finger. "But that ain't the worst, boys. Some'a these fruiters he'd pick up? He'd drill holes in their heads, to take the fight out of 'em so's he could butt-fuck 'em all night long—sometimes fer even days—and the feller couldn't do nothin' about it."
"Jay-sus," Dicky remarked.
The keep gave a curt nod. "Just goes ta show, boys. The devil comes in all shapes'n sizes," and then he wandered back to his beer taps.
Balls and Dicky stared up at the TV.
"Damn," Balls muttered. "He drilled holes in their heads. That's some cool shit, ain't it?"
Dicky looked aghast. "Cool? Balls, that's some right sick-in-the-head shit is what that is."
Balls raised a brow but said nothing, still staring up at the TV.
"But ya know what I don't git, Balls?" Dicky ventured. "What's a fudge-packin' murderer got to do with cereal?"
"Hmm. Don't rightly know. Maybe that's what he fed these fruiters after he took the zing out of 'em with the drill."
A voice to their right cut in: "Actually a serial killer is a modern law-enforcement label that's used to differentiate from mass-murders and spree killers. The individual will kill a series of persons, generally over an extended period of time, functioning normally in between victims. It's not uncommon for serial killers to work everyday jobs, own homes, and even have families."
Balls and Dicky looked over at the guy who'd related the information: a clean-cut guy with brown hair, glasses, and a white shirt—a nerd. He was drinking beer by himself.
"But ain't they all crazy?" Balls asked.
"Sometimes but not exclusively. Some serial killers even have high I.Q.'s. The frightening part is they tend to not stand out. The average serial killer is typically a white male in his twenties or thirties, and he commits his crimes, often undetected for years—like Ed Gein or Henry Lee Lucas—to live out a deep-seated sexual fantasy born in some mode of dementia."
Balls leaned over to Dicky. "Wow, this fella knows some big words."
"That he does—"
The guy continued, "The term was dubbed by FBI Agent Robert Ressler in the ‘70s, during the plethora of national news coverage about Ted Bundy, who raped and murdered women and children in at least five states. He's right up there with Gein and Lucas, the Green River Killer, John Wayne Gacy, but this guy here—Dahmer—he may wind up being the most grotesque of the bunch."
"Dang," Dicky said. "There's some fucked up folks in this world."