Hogg by Delany Samuel R

Author:Delany, Samuel R.
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504011570
Publisher: Open Road Media

“Shit!” Hawk stood on the gravel shoulder, scowling and knuckling his crotch with one thumb. “Goddamn motherfuckin’ shit!”

“Cocksucker,” the policeman said. He wasn’t talking to me. It was halfway into evening. “Do I ever have your ass! Three people on the bike. None of you got helmets. The black boy’s riding barefoot—I don’t know, but that’s got to be illegal. And then that—” With a sick grin he pointed to the limousine, on its roof, wheels to the sky and still turning. One headlight fanned off into the trees. “Do I ever have your ass, cocksucker!”

“He was the one who tried to run me off the road!” Hawk shook his head. He was really angry. But he was scared too. “The motherfucker came screaming up behind us—he jumped the damn divider, man—and went rollin’ wheels over headlights down the goddamn highway! I mean, look at him.…” Hawk gestured with a greasy fist.

The policeman was looking at Hawk. “You guys who like to run around wavin’ your armpits in the batman costumes, or whatever you call that get-up: I get a kick when I get a chance to put one of you fuckers in your place.” He gave the same sick grin to Hawk he had to the wreck. “I really do.”

“Aw, fuck off!” Hawk said, and looked around.

The nigger was standing quiet by the back of the bike, his arms crossed, one foot across the other and digging at a twig or something with his toe, pretty much staring at the ground.

I walked away from the ’cycle toward the car.

“Hey …” the policeman said. “Where the fuck is the kid going?”

“Same place I was,” Hawk said. “Same place you ought to be. Suppose somebody’s left alive in that thing!”

“Hey, you!” the policeman hollered. “You can’t go messin’ with wrecks like that. Sometimes they explode! Or just catch fire or something. You can get hurt. Hey!”

Gas was running from under the hood. The green gum of oil snaked through, gleaming in the evening. It was a big, black limousine, with curtains in the back windows, like a hearse. It slanted off the road, head first, tilted down. The car radio was playing an old Mamas and Papas song, “This is Dedicated.”

The driver looked like he’d been trying to climb out the window, but, held back by the seatbelt I guess, his head had been thrown out sideways though the glass. They couldn’t see him from the road, but he was pretty cut up. His head and his shoulder and one arm, upside down, hung out.

His head moved. He’d been slashed across the eyes. Even so, I recognized him.

It was Mr. Jonas.

“Hey, kid!” the policeman yelled. “Get the fuck away from there! It might go up any minute!”

Inside the car, the music halted.

“This is Edward Sawyers, interrupting our program, to bring you a special bulletin. Minutes ago—not long ago, a bloody and terrifying massacre occurred at the Piewacket Bar and Grill in the Lower Frontwater area. The bartender, Raymond W. Arnold, identified the assailant as seventeen-year-old Dennis Harkner.

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