The Great American Suction by David Nutt

Author:David Nutt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tyrant Books
Published: 2019-07-17T16:00:00+00:00

10.

Shaker has a savvy aptitude for siphoning fuel that utilizes a plastic tube inserted into his lips and a surfeit of sucking, spitting, sucking, etc., that climaxes in a brief bout of gasoline poisoning and bed rest. Once recovered, he is able to revive the abandoned mower and roar his narrow slices across the yard. The yard is flat and soft and practically grassless. Soon the machine, and Shaker behind it, are stranded in a foot and a half of mud sludge. Shaker yanks the mower’s ripcord until the engine floods and the cord breaks. He tries to give the machine a hearty kick and loses his hiking boot in the muck. From the manor’s bay window, he can feel them watching him. The imposter woman and her invalid husband. Shaker isn’t upset about the surveillance. He just wishes there was something more captivating—like bloodthirsty wildlife or open-heart surgery, or some unholy combination of the two—for them to stare at all afternoon.

So far, he has gargled several flasks of mouthwash and a liter of cream soda. The rancid gasoline tang is still the only thing he tastes.

*

He dwindles through the ensuing day with one of Royce’s leg blankets draped on his shoulders, a pair of pliers tucked in his waistband, something viscid snailing down his left shinbone. He has sequestered himself indoors and avoids windows and natural sunlight. He examines his body for abnormal lesions and bruises that might symptomize divine wrath or foul play. The sun sets behind a horizon of unfinished homes, but Shaker doesn’t see it. He’s standing in the bathroom, sucking the blood he has bitten from his lip, baring his gorgeous pink fangs. Then he resumes his wandering of dark shoals until dinnertime.

They eat together at the long dining room table, the three of them laterally arranged so all individuals are spared direct sightlines. The woman spoons a pea-colored pesto into Royce’s mouth with an impressive hook-armed technique that Shaker greatly admires. When she catches Shaker admiring her, he lowers his glance and takes another slug of his dank vinegar drink, which he is hoping will reduce the peppermint mouthwash’s grotty aftertaste. He looks up and finds the woman glaring at him.

“One bonnet,” he replies. “Many, many bees.”

After the table has been cleared and Royce is wheeled off to his bath chamber for bubble-and-sponge hour, Shaker visits the upstairs library. He sits with the blanket over his head and phone.

“The ultimate misadventure,” he tells the Tullys. “Probably best not to involve the authorities. Or the Irish.”

The Brothers arrive after nightfall. Shaker stands watch on the street corner in one of Royce’s brown velour jogging suits, Mortimer’s gasmask on his face. Tullys One and Two enter the Tudor with a large gunny-sack. Ten minutes later, they exit hoisting an even larger sack. Shaker helps them heave it into the truck bed, and they pull him inside the truck, too.

Brother One unfolds the hanky in his fist. A squished puffer.

“A little late to name him,” Shaker says.

They

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