Bad to the Bones(7)
So he did actually feel for these poor *s wandering aimlessly in the desert. There were rumors the swami had bussed people living on the fringes from all states of the union to swell the voter rolls. That was especially blatant voter tampering. Knoxie and Lytton went to the annual policeman’s ball and paid their taxes on their legitimate concerns just like any other businessman. Having their choice of men in office was their right. What was weird was, the election wasn’t until two weeks from now. Why had the Swami risked throwing out his muscle before the election?
There was another lump, another body. This one was dressed in the lavender shade Knoxie associated with the cult. Sprawled on his side on the ground, the “knockout drops” must’ve gotten to him. Knoxie didn’t need more disabled unskilled derelicts hanging around the downtown area, but maybe they could find a way to get these guys back to their original cities, at least. After pumping them for intel, of course.
Knoxie was almost jogging by the time he reached the body. This was no man. Her long legs were covered in skintight violet leggings, her tiny skirt hiked up to reveal the rise of a nicely-shaped butt. Knoxie was ashamed these were his immediate feelings. But when he squatted and turned her to face the sky, he saw she was quite a stunning young lady. Her satiny eyebrows were black slashes, her nose kind of Middle Eastern. This one clearly didn’t belong in the group of bum wine enthusiasts.
She was obviously drugged. Knoxie could tell by the way her eyes rolled up inside her skull. She wasn’t unconscious, just sleeping the sleep of the dead. She wore one of those asinine photo necklaces, and Knoxie felt like tearing it right off. She couldn’t give him any decent information in the state she was in, but maybe she could later on.
Knoxie carried her back to his cage.
He talked while he walked. He felt manly, more virile and fully alive than he had in a long time. Finding this girl had instantly taken him out of his comfort zone, forced him to look at his life from another point of view. For the first time ever, he understood why a man would want to join forces with The Bare Bones. There was strength in numbers. You automatically had hundreds of other brothers who’d go to the wall for you in any given situation. There was power and toughness in having rugged men like the Boners behind him. “Why’d he dump you with those bums? Where’d you come from? Why are you wearing that creep’s picture around your neck?”
Her tight tank pressed her breasts from their bra cups. Knoxie was actually stirred by the sight of those mounds jiggling as he walked. You’re not a damned necrophiliac. Wait until she wakes up. Wait to hear her story. She’s probably as bad as the rest of them. I’m sure her belt doesn’t go through all the loops either. Oh God, she’s waking up. She’s gonna think I’m kidnaping her.
She stirred and opened her bleary eyes. He was stunned by the cornflower blue vitality, the intelligence behind them. Wild Man saw him carrying the girl, and like a good former Prospect, he leaped to open the Mustang’s back door.
“What the f*ck?” Wild Man was in awe. “They kicked out this girl?”
“Exactly my thoughts,” said Knoxie as he placed her onto the seat. She went willingly, without so much as a whimper, as though accustomed to being ordered around, and maybe even physically directed. He crouched next to her, covering her torso with his, his eyes questing over her face.
The transient was still droning on and on to Lytton, going in-depth about his favorite wine varieties. “They call it Night Train because it makes you drowsy. Some say it’s the Clorox flavor that knocks you out…”
Knoxie didn’t want that to be the first thing this poor lost angel heard. So he talked. “Who are you?” he murmured. When he brushed a lock of her dark auburn hair from her eyes, she blinked. Her eyes were wide open now, the pupils dilated like a lunar eclipse. “How’d you come to be living with those whack jobs? Where are you from?”
She was going to speak. Knoxie held his breath as he felt her body stirring to life under him.
Her voice was girlish and whispery, like many of the gashes he worked with. Her words were almost as strange and awful. “Oh, Master. Is it time to be penetrated?”
Whoa. He was right. This one was a few sheep short of an orgy.
“They kicked us out!” the alcoholic was now raving. “Just like the Jews out of Hamburg!”
CHAPTER THREE
BELLAMY
I’d been told that I “lack insight into my condition.” Over at the ashram we did a lot of therapy, deep introspection, meditation, study into ourselves. My Master always told me I had some kind of borderline personality, that I lacked empathy. He said serial killers have the same sort of disorder. Their inability to feel the pain of others—or their own pain, I gather—is what allows them to kill without sorrow or remorse. He said I had that. This made me afraid that I might accidentally kill someone and not know about it.
I do remember feeling a lot of pain and angst as a teenager. For a couple of years my mother did nothing but scream at us kids. I knew from talking to my friends that it was pretty common to have a screaming mother. Teenagers seem to bring it out in them. But Virginia and I, somehow we knew that our mother screamed more than usual. She was constantly on some kind of emotional rampage, bursting into tears at the drop of a hat, like when the roofer unintentionally disconnected her cable TV. Oh man, that was a major rampage. I’ll never forget the sight of the poor tar-covered workman, his blank, shocked face as Carol raged at him. He meekly tried to explain that her TV would only be out for half an hour. No, that wasn’t good enough. She would’ve written a bad Yelp review on him too, if she’d had a computer she knew how to use.