“A Town Called Disdain”, Episode Twelve: unpleasant encounter on the road (continued)

Poor Harvey, still his first day back from Vietnam in his hometown of Disdain, NM (he’s already had to kill one man) and now here he is on the side of a desert road in a white Thunderbird convertible with this beautiful lady Daphne “Smith”, trapped by a motorcycle gang called the Motorpsychos, with their evil leader Moloch standing on the hood of the car.

(Go here for our previous episode; newcomers may go here to return to our first chapter.)

(This episode rated R for excessive sex, violence, and lurid writing.)

“First,” said Moloch, “I am going to --”

“Moloch! Moloch!”

Everyone turned to see a bearded behemoth in a Nazi steel helmet hopping and dragging himself on only one good leg through the cordon of motorcyclists.

“Moloch!”

“What is it, Crackle?” said Moloch, with testiness discernible in his tone.

“Moloch, that bitch run into me! She done broke my leg. Look at it! She done broke it!”

It was true that his left leg was dragging behind the man, the foot at an alarming angle vis-à-vis his massive torso.

“Lookit! She run into to me and broke my leg!”

“Yes,” said Moloch. “And?”

“And?” asked the man.

“And,” said Daphne, now seemingly recovered from her knock against the steering wheel, “you ran into me, you fool!”

She picked her bag up from the car seat and fished out her cigarette case.

“You bitch!” said Crackle.

“Crackle,” said Moloch.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sorry you broke your leg.”

Daphne offered Harvey one of her cigarettes and Harvey took one.

“Truly sorry,” said Moloch.

“Thanks, Moloch. I appreciate --”

“But do not ever --”

“I mean I appreciate your concern,” said Crackle. He had now dragged himself and his shattered leg up next to the front of the car. “I do appreciate it --”

“Do not ever interrupt me whilst I’m speaking again.”

Harvey lit up his and Daphne’s cigarettes with his Zippo.

“Ever,” said Moloch.

“I won’t, sir,” said Crackle. “I surely won’t. But --”

“I’m not finished speaking.”

“I unnerstand, Moloch. I do, but --”

“So please shut up.”

“But Moloch,” said Crackle quickly, “won’t you let me just rape her?”

“Crackle, what did I say?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I mean, you go ahead and rape her first, you’re the boss, but, like, can I go second at least?”

“Crackle, please shut up.”

“I will. I surely will, sir. I’ll just stand right here and cheer you on whiles you go first, but --”

“Crackle, hobble just a step closer.”

“Yes, sir, so’s I can see better --”

“Put your hands on the bonnet.”

“The bonnet.”

“The hood.”

“Yes, sir.”

Crackle hobbled up and put his hands on the hood, and Moloch reared back and viciously kicked the steel toe of his boot right into Crackle’s mouth, sending his helmeted head flying back like a soccer ball with his enormous body tumbling head over heels behind it into the harshly lit dust, where he lay crumpled and still.

“Now,” said Moloch, “where was I? Oh, yes, I believe the subject of rape had been brought up --”

He turned again to gaze down at Daphne and Harvey, and a great burst of shouting, whistling, and applause burst out as he unzipped his fly and yanked out his penis.

“Now,” he said, “the only question is with whom to begin. The young lady is indeed most attractive.”

“Oh, fuck you,” said Daphne.

“But the soldier boy is somewhat alluring as well, in a youthful Montgomery Clift sort of way.”

“Now you just hold on a minute, man,” said Harvey.

“Oh, yes, brings me back to my days at Eton,” said Moloch, stroking his penis with one hand and his chin with the other. “I think I might just go for the soldier boy first --”

Suddenly a car pulled up. No one had noticed it above the racket of the idling belching motorcycle engines.

It was Dick, in Big Jake’s red Cadillac. Big Jake was in the car too, but he was cowering fatly down in the footspace.

Dick cut the ignition, neatly vaulted over the driver’s-side door, and strode toward the Thunderbird.

“Um, excuse, me, fellas! Excuse me!”

He was smiling, and his even white teeth fairly glowed. Actually he was just completely wasted on the acid now and riding on the moment like a surfer on a big wave, trying not to wipe out.

“Hey, fellas, fun’s fun, but that’s a borrowed car there. Excuse me. Sorry.”

He edged sideways through a couple of the bikers and then deftly hopped over Crackle, who lay in the dirt now moaning and shaking his head and trying to push his massive body up.

Moloch still stood on the trunk of the Thunderbird, stroking his penis with his right hand. Dick came up right next to the car, and put his hands in his shorts pockets. He had to admit that Moloch had a big johnson all right. But it seemed to have some sort of tattoo on it, as well as numerous scars and pimples and several open sores.

“Hi there,” said Dick. “Look, really, if it was my car I wouldn’t care so much, but this baby happens to belong to a very old friend of mine from the Naval Academy, and --”

He was very much aware of the oddness of what he was saying but the words were just pouring out.

Moloch held up his left, unoccupied, hand.

“I have changed my plan slightly,” he declared. “I think instead I shall bugger this imbecile first!”

The mob roared.

Dick smiled and nodded his head and then chuckled, “Now wait a minute, buddy! I’m as broadminded as the next guy, but really --”

Moloch continued to stroke his ravaged penis as his men now began chanting the “Oh we yo, yo rum” marching song from The Wizard of Oz.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Daphne, tapping her ash into the dashboard ashtray.

Dick, still smiling, still with his hands casually in his bermuda shorts pockets, turned and looked around at the chanting bikers and then back at Moloch, whose johnson was getting really big now. He saw that the tattoo read “BITE ME”.

Back in the Cadillac Big Jake still huddled quaking in the footspace. He wanted to jump quickly into the driver’s seat, turn the ignition on and slam it the hell out of there, but he was afraid that Moloch would be mad at him if he did.

“Well, fella," said Dick to Moloch, “I gotta say that is one hunk o’ horsemeat you’ve got there, but the fact is, tonight I’m just not in the mood.”

“Too bad,” said Moloch, breathing heavily, his half-closed one good eye behind his mirrored shades roaming from Dick to Daphne to Harvey and back again, like a little boy who doesn’t know which Christmas present he really wants to open first.


“Yeah, that is too bad,” said Dick, and then his right hand came out of his pocket with the little .38 revolver and he held it at arm’s length right against the purple uncircumcised head of Moloch’s penis.

(To be continued, good taste be damned.)