When I saw the old ghost town in the distance, I figured it must be my destination. I wasn't exactly sure because I didn't know what the hell I was doing in the middle of the Nevada desert in the first place. I'd been on my way to Carmel, where this dignified group of guys and gals that I ride motorcycles with were planning to arouse the hatred and prejudices of upper-class white America. Clint Eastwood be damned. The Devil's Brood had descended upon other respectable communities over the years, always with the same results. After a few hours of a hundred Harleys rumbling by the million dollar homes, the police would come at us from all directions with everything but nuclear weapons. Then the ultimatum.
``Get the fuck out of my town, punks.''
``Or what, officer?,'' we'd reply in unison. ``We're only riding on the city streets, within the speed limits. We're respectable law abiding citizens.''
Which usually caused an immediate rise in the officer's blood pressure. Maybe it had something to do with our tattoos or the chains hanging from our shoulders or even the rings through our ears, noses, and the gal's nipples, which were often quite visible.
After the residential tour we usually retire to a bar for the rest of the day, where we can be up close and personal, even sign a few autographs. I think what causes the worst hatred in the local do-gooders is that we force them to admit their fear and their inability to do anything about us. Fear is bad enough, but when one of the local toughs has to back down and leave with his dick between his legs, rather than fight and end up with twenty-seven broken bones; that really brings out a person's true resentments.
The strange thing is the girls. There are always an ample supply of pretty young things that seem to enjoy our unbathed aroma and the bugs between our teeth. I'm talking respectable pussy, not a bunch of sluts. These little girls probably sing in the church choir, and there are always a few who want to spread their butts over the back of our 1200cc vibrators and ride off into the sunset with our fine upstanding group of young men.
We take them too. Hell, yes! No kidnapping there. They beg to go. Of course we always get rid of them before crossing a state line. The big excitement in their lives, to that point, is accidentally brushing their hand against their boyfriend's dick while watching Love Story at the drive-in, and most of them seem surprised when they get gang-banged by twenty or thirty guys. But occasionally we come across one who really gets off on carving notches on her vibrator. I guess that type thinks people don't suspect what they're doing when they ride off with a hundred guys on Harleys and stay gone for a few days. They wouldn't dream of fucking the whole football team. That might give them a bad reputation. The way I see it, we're doing them a favor. They go back home after their exposure to the Devil's Brood, curiosity satisfied, and grow up to be fine upstanding mothers, wives, maybe even members of The Daughters of the American Revolution.
Anyway, I'd been on my way to Carmel, on highway 50 in Nevada, when I got this overpowering urge to turn off onto a small dirt road. It wound through a valley between the Shoshone Mountains and the Toiyabe Range. I really wanted to be back on the main highway, but for some crazy reason I just had to see what was at the end of the rainbow.
I guess the ghost town was it, because I lost the feeling as soon as I drove into town. If you can call it a town. Five or six buildings which looked like they'd been built from some of Noah's left over lumber, and the last rain had probably come about the same time. A saloon, a church, the general store, a blacksmith and livery stable, and what might have been a bank back when the citizens still carried a pouch of gold on their belts. That was it. The street was so dusty that my Harley's tracks looked like Indian smoke signals.
Everything was boarded up except the saloon. Those old, wooden, swinging doors were drawing me toward them. Something was inside that fire trap, and I had to find out what. The cat's curiosity be damned. Boy, what a surprise when I pushed open the swinging doors. The furnishings were just what you'd expect in an old cowboy movie, except everything was clean and polished. There was even a shiny spittoon by the bar, which seemed kind of useless since I always honked my lungers and Red Man on the floor. All the wood looked like the Boy Scouts of America had gone over it with linseed oil. The floors were spotless, but the biggest surprise was on the bar. A pitcher of ice water, a glass, and an unopened fifth of Wild Turkey.
Occasionally you'll find a member of a motorcycle gang who isn't as dumb as he looks -- occasionally. And I had a very strong suspicion that something wasn't right. But before I got to the bottom of things, I decided to prevail myself of the hospitality and poured a social drink, stopping when the glass overflowed, then wolfed it down.
``Great balls of fire! That be some fine sipping whiskey. Now, who's here? Come out, come out, wherever you are, before I pound your head-bone down to your ankle-bone.''
I don't know who or what I was expecting, but it wasn't the dude that walked out from the back room. His face looked like he'd laid in a suntan bed for about ten years, and I think he made his living prospecting for dirt and struck it rich. If they had Goodwill stores back in the days of the cattle drives, then that's who dressed him.
``Okay, Pops. What's the deal here? You got some friends back there hiding?''
``No son. Just me.''
``What's with the whiskey?''
``I thought you might be thirsty after your drive. If it's not the correct brand, I've got a good selection in back.''
``You sound like you knew I was coming. What's going on? I want some answers, and if I don't get'em, I'm gonna ram your false teeth up your ass and let you talk out the other end.''
``What's your name, son?''
``They call me Biceps.''
``I can certainly see why. Would you like something to eat?''
``I want you to tell me what the fuck's going on here.'' The old dude was just as calm as an English butler. When I get mad at someone, I'm used to seeing them shake or run away or at least piss their pants, but this old fart must have been shooting IV ice cubes.
``I'll fix you a nice meal. You go ahead and have another drink, and I'll be ready in a few minutes.''
My tolerance level is about as high as a snake's belly in Death Valley, and normally by that time I would have been breaking some bones, but instead I turned back to the bar and poured another eight ounces of Turkey. About ten minutes later the old guy announced that dinner was served. I swear he had just a touch of an English accent. I half expected to hear him announce the entrance of the Queen and Baron von Budwiser.
You simply ain't gonna believe what I saw when I turned around. One of the tables was covered with a linen table cloth and set with china and real silver. There were candles. In a fucking candelabra yet! The guy had cooked a steak that hung over the edges of the plate, and the smell was on an interstate straight to my nose. My urge to make him into a spitball disappeared. It was chow time.
``We'll talk while you eat, Mr. Biceps.''
``Just plain fucking Biceps will do. Damn, you cook a mean steak. You're the only one in this dirtball town?''
``Yep. Except for an occasional visitor like yourself.''
``How long you been here?''
``I was headed for the gold rush in California when I came through Smithville, twenty-two years old and full of piss and vinegar. Course it wasn't called Smithville back then -- Purgatory -- yeah, I think that's what they called it. I've been here ever since.''
``The gold rush in California? You brain dead or what? The gold rush was in 1849.''
``Yep. It's been a long time.''
``You look very young for your age. Not a day over sixty. In fact you're the youngest looking 159 year old I've ever seen. How dumb do you think I am?'' The guy didn't even change expressions. Calm as a Koala bear, and I was beginning to think about rearranging organs again.
``I guess you want an explanation?''
``Only if you like the idea of having two arms and two legs.''
``Okay, here goes, but after I finish you're going to tell me about yourself.'' It wasn't a question. He just made a statement of fact. ``I came through Purgatory in 49, but the prospectors were doing pretty well right here, so I decided to try my luck. It was almost winter anyway, and I didn't much like the idea of going over the Sierras in a blizzard. I worked my ass off up in those mountains, but all I found was rocks. I'd always lived by the philosophy that it was easier to let other people do the work and then take it away from them. I was tough as nails back in those days. A lot like you. Yep, a whole lot like you.''
``So I jumped this old guy's claim, and when he fought me, I killed him. No big deal. He wasn't the first person to find himself on the wrong end of my Colt. The town people were a little suspicious when Mike didn't show up again, especially since I was spreading the dust around. I don't know how much I dug out of that hole, but I spent every ounce. Women, whiskey, gambling. Then the mine played out.''
``In 1949 right?'' The old guy either had terminal brain rot, or he was some writer holed up in the old town trying to get an idea for a story, and he was trying it out on me.
``Once I got that gold dust in my veins, there was no turning back. But I was smart enough to know if another miner turned up missing and I started buying three women a night -- Well, you get the idea. How's the steak?''
``Great. How about another drink?'' He reached under the table and came up with a bottle of Wild Turkey. I looked at the bar and my old bottle was gone.
``I could either leave or find some way of getting the gold without being lynched, and there was too much dust in those hills to leave behind. There's a small lake out behind town. That's why they settled here in the first place, before they struck the yellow stuff. It was their water supply, and I poisoned it. By the time the first ones started getting sick, everyone had drunk their share. It was a good, slow acting poison. I took to the hills for a few days; never seen so much puke. Counting the kids and the preacher, I guess I killed about thirty people. Every damn one of them.''
The whiskey was doing its thing, and I had a buzz on like one of those killer bee movies, but I still had maybe three or four brain cells functioning.
``So you snuffed the whole fucking town. Then what?''
``I went to work, naturally. Dug up I don't know how much gold. But it was useless. There wasn't anything to spend it on. I'd killed all the women, drunk all the booze, and it's hard to gamble playing solitaire.''
``Old man, I think you have more nuts in your skull than that Harley out there, but if you want to play games, I'll bite. Why didn't you leave with all your riches? Go to Frisco and live the good life.''
``Couldn't.''
``What kind of an asshole answer is that?''
``It took me a year to figure it out. I kept waiting for more people to show up. It was my town, and I would run everything. Ol' Hank Smith had his own town. Even renamed it -- Smithville. But no one came. I finally got more gold than my old burro Sally could tote, so I decided to leave. Didn't do any good. We set out for California several times, but when the sun rose the next morning, I was always right outside of town. I finally just gave up. It was a few years later when I finally figured out the deal.''
``Your story stinks worse than my farts, and my purple bean burners have been known to clear out entire counties.''
``Better listen. This may become real important to you.''
``Yeah, about as useful as the exhaust fumes from my bike or a ninety-year-old virgin.''
``It's time to hear about you now.''
``What the fuck you talking about?''
``I said let's hear your story.''
The guy's voice had lost its British accent. It had some real force behind it, and I found myself telling the old goat about things which the statute of limitations won't run out on until the year 3000.
``Okay, you think you were bad. Shit. Me and the guys in Devil's Brood have done things which make you sound like Jerry Falwell. Once in Oregon, we found these three young gals camping in the forest where we'd stopped for the night. Man, that was a time to remember. Young, firm tits, juicy stuff. We kept them tied to the trees when we weren't using them. Five days. We did some heavy humping. Anyone tells you you can't wear out pussy just never tried. Course we couldn't let'em go afterwards. Cut'em up in little pieces and buried'em right on the spot.''
``Then there was that time we held this little town in Kansas hostage for three days. The whole fucking town. We fucked all the women, and did some real interesting things to the men. I made the preacher suck off the Mayor right in front of the wife and kids, and we castrated three of the local bad asses. Boy, those were the good ol' days.''
I found myself talking for two hours. It took that long to spill my guts about all my dastardly deeds. I just couldn't seem to stop, sort of like popping a whole bottle of speed. Hank never said a word, just sat and listened. When I'd finished he did the weirdest thing, which is saying something for Hank.
He looked up at the ceiling and said, ``Well, how `bout it. Was he worse than me?'' Then he got a big smile on his face like someone was talking to him.
``Well, Biceps, I can tell you the rest of the story now. I've sort of been in purgatory here. Ha, that's a good one. I couldn't leave until someone more vile than me came along. The only people that take the road to this place are real mean asses. I've listened to some bad folks in the last century, but none were bad enough. Until you. Hot damn, I'm free. Show me how to drive that bike of yours. I'm getting out of here.''
``Say what?''
``You heard me. Teach me how to drive that thing.''
``Your Mother.'' I pulled my knife out of my boot and threw it straight at the guy's chest. The thing's about as long as s Revolutionary War bayonet and sharp as a razor. It went straight through him and stuck in the wall. Now, I'd buried the thing pretty deep in a lot of chests, but it never went completely through anyone. And the guy wasn't even hurt.
``Give it up. You can't hurt me. That comes with the job. You'll have to listen to a lot of bad men, and some of them will try and put the hurt on you. It wouldn't be much of a purgatory if the first guy killed you, now would it? And a little piece of advice. You'll get out of here a lot quicker if you start acting nice. Some of the people who came through here were worse than me, but I was still too damn mean to leave. The sooner you start acting like a servant and try to help people, the quicker you'll be back sniffing pussy.''
``You'll find everything you need in the back room. If someone comes in who likes scotch, you'll find a bottle in back. You'll know before he gets here. How do you think I knew that your favorite food was steak?''
``I'll kill you!''
``Skunk turds. You'll show me how to drive that bike.''
And I did. I just couldn't help myself. He was ready to go when that orange ball of fire topped the mountains. Loaded up the saddle bags with raw gold and started the engine.
``Don't worry Biceps. I've sorta kept up with things over the years, and as crazy as the world is today, there's sure to be someone worse than you along any minute. Maybe Khadafy will stop be for a nice glass of camel milk.''
``Wait! Who were you talking to last night?''
``Damned if I know. Every few years he'd drop a word or two. Kind of let me know what I was doing wrong. If you ever find out, I'll be at the best whore house in Frisco. Have a nice day.''
So here I sit. Waiting. It's been a year now and so far no visitors. I guess I must have been one mean dude. For the first week I tried walking out, but Hank was right. Every morning I'd be right back at Bicepsville. I guess I could try digging a little gold, so I'll have something to take with me when I leave. If I ever leave. Last night I heard the voice for the first time. I was dreaming about all the things I would do when I got out of here, and this "Ten Commandments" type voice came out of nowhere.
``What if you were the meanest mother fucker in the whole
universe?''
James Alexander is a doctor presently at a University Medical Center, trying to teach the med students which end to stick the thermometer in. He adds in his defense ``But, I would rather be writing fiction -- in a cabin in the Rocky Mountains. Being a reformed drunk, writing is a great mode of therapy and helps keep me insane.''
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