How am I gonna pay for my new Cherokee and pool table if this shit keeps up? he wondered.
That blond bitch newscaster didn't help improve his mood much, either. Made me look like a damn fool, he thought. Tellin' folks we need the damn state fuzz in here 'cos of our limited ‘resources.' The fuckin' bitch!
That was the last thing Lass needed. To hell with the dead kids. Bunch'a state investigators got in here nosing around, they might easily find out about some of Lass' less than dutiful involvements.
Yeah, the blond bitch... Lass wouldn't mind taking her skinny ass around back behind the station and breaking up her pursy face with his billy. Then she'd be too ugly to be on TV. He could toss her to a pimp who'd have her ass turned in one day, out on the street earning cash.
Bitch, he thought a last time.
Couple of kids die in this shit-pit town and once it makes the national news, the whole country's going nuts. And only 'cos it's kids, Lass thought bitterly. And they don't give a hoot that each and every one of 'em wasn't nothin' but trailer park skell no ways. Bunch'a little white ‘gers raping ten-year-olds on the playground, quittin' school in the fourth grade to steal hub caps and CD players and prance around in their ball caps and baggy pants listening to that rap shit. Lass didn't get this Rap business, no matter what that pussy suck-face Hoiter said. To Lass it just sounded like a bunch of shit; all these players did was make up words that rhymed.
Lass, come to think of it, needed some real music now. Like some Reba or Bonnie Rait, or some of the good ‘ol Dolly. He flicked on the console radio:
"Got the big dick itch, dig a motherfuckin' ditch, then my AOL glitch—yo white bitch!"
Lass snapped it off, clacking his teeth. Obviously, Hoiter had fucked up all of Lass' pre-set stations. I'll fix his ass tomorrow. See how he likes scrubbing all the bum puke out of the drunk tank.
He idled down the back streets now. No action here, either. Just house after house and trailer after trailer with their shades drawn. Shut in. Scared.
Bad for business.
And now, to top it all off, those damn hayseed ranchers had to go out and get their asses killed too. I warned 'em, Lass congratulated himself. I warned 'em not to go fuckin' around out there. And look what happens.
Eight of them had met at Lohan's Ranch, and old Jake Lohan himself had been the one to rile them all up with shit like if the police couldn't protect their kids, they'd have to do it themselves. So they'd all grabbed their guns and run off in the woods like a bunch of perfect asses. Couple hours later, the rescue squad was hauling them out of the trees behind Stoddard's Mill in body bags. They'd all been gored right through their hearts.
The only one of them that lived was Jake Lohan but he was in a coma and looking like he'd be cold by morning.
I told 'em so, the dickbrains.
Lass cruised down more dark streets. This wasn't exactly routine patrol, of course. The main reason he was out tonight transcended his law-enforcement obligations. Lass needed a nut in a bad way. And it damn sure pissed him off that none of the whores were out plying their trade like they should be. Ordinarily, any time Lass got horny, all he had to do was pluck a gal off the street and pull it out. They weren't stupid, and they'd always swallow. To tell the truth, though, what Lass really wanted was another hum-dinger cocksuck from that closet-fairy Oly Dodell but there was no way that would be happening tonight, not unless Lass went to the morgue and opened Dodell's drawer.
Christ! Lass pawed his crotch. I need to get off!
His plight took him deeper and deeper into DeSmet's more remote roads. He turned at the corner of 38th Avenue and Auburn Street, thinking: Please, please! Just one fuckin' whore!
And by the time he'd finished the turn, his plea was answered.
Lass grinned. It was Arianne Zausner, the meth-freak who'd sucked his ass last week. Lass measured a woman's right to exist not by her contribution to society, nor her intelligence, but by her ability to suck ass. And Arianne Zauser got the highest mark in town.
He pulled over, stopped, and flipped open the passenger door.
"Aw, shit," she said. Her wan face looked half-dead already. "You're busting me again?"
"Simmer down, sweetie. Your good old Uncle A.T. isn't gonna arrest your dirty ass. It's just time to pay a little street toll. Don't forget about that break I gave you last week."
"Yeah, some break," she came back. "I got to lick the shit out of your asshole."
Lass' jaw set. He wasn't in the mood for back-talk, especially from a skinny dope-addict. "Don't make this hard, hon. You can get in and pay the toll, or maybe the next time you fire up a pipe, you'll get a lump of ammonia instead of ice."
The girl slumped into the cruiser, shut the door.
"That's a smart girl. And all this time I thought you had cum for brains."
She sat with her arms tightly crossed, chin down. Her bare legs sticking out of the faded cut-off shorts looked white as a grouper-belly in the moonlight. "I need to cop bad," she admitted, shivering. "I need some ice. Like really bad."
"Well, I can't help ya there, baby," Lass announced from behind the wheel. "What happened to that bag I gave ya last week?"
"That was gone in two days."
"Not my problem." Lass found one of his hide-outs, a little snip of an old haulage trail. What didn't occur to him, however, was that this long-disused haulage trail was once an auxiliary access lane to the gypsum mine behind Stoddard's Mill.
He parked, let the car idle.
"I'll need twenty for this," she peeped a demand.
Lass laughed. "Honeybunch, you seem to be forgetting something. I don't pay for blowjobs. I'm The Man. I'm John Law. You suck my dick for free whenever I tell you to."
"Okay, a ten!" she nearly shrieked. "I need to cop some ice!"
"Well then I guess you need to walk your dirty ass to Callisto and buy some from Leonard."
She shrieked again, "I can't buy with no money."
"Then I guess you need to peddle that junkie fuck-hole of yours a little harder, huh?"
"There's no johns out! There's no tricks! Nobody's cruising the strip because of the killings! Goddamn you! I need to score!"
Lass nodded in consideration. "Okay, I'll give you ten, but this is the only time, understand?"
Suddenly her hands were on him, she was practically panting. "Yes, yes! Thank you—"
"Here's five," he said placidly, and then jerked around and punched her in the face. The collision of his fist to her cheek sounded like wet-leather snapping. "And here's another five... " A second blow caught her right up under the chin. Her head bobbed like a ball on a spring.