CRUDDY by Lynda Barry

shooting high and white, then gone, then rising again. It’s called pulsing. It happens because of the differences in pressure. Blood shoots for the same reason. You would be surprised by how it can spray. Blood can hit the ceiling and drip back down on you. But usually blood on the ceiling and the walls is secondary. It is from the knife or the ax in fast repeated motion. Back-splattering. Meat people know how to keep it to a minimum but it is still an unavoidable part of the job. I mentioned this too. Vicky said, “You’re sick, Roberta. Is the money real?”

    The fountain jets shot up and behind them in the blue sky the clouds were moving fast. The visual combination made me dizzy, and I saw the little bright spots come swimming from the sides of my eyes.
    I said, “I need to sit down.”
    The Turtle sat down next to me. “Tell me about the dangerous adventures of Little Debbie.”
    Vicky said, “You two are perfect for each other. I can’t wait for both of you to get really high and have a conversation because I want to be really high and listen to it because I can’t tell what the fuck either one of you is talking about.”
    She had one cigarette left. She lit it with the USN lighter. The flame blew sideways in the wind and I smelled the fluid and my fingers itched to take it apart. Slip it out of its metal case and take a dime to the screw at the bottom and open it. I wanted to tilt up the flicker wheel and pull out the red flint. I said, “Can I see your lighter, Vicky?”
    She said, “People who lie can’t touch anything of mine.”
    The Turtle suggested we move down to a little hollow beside the fence where we would be completely hidden. Vicky got mad. “Once I light a cig I hate to move, OK? I’ll do it this time but next time you’ll know so there will not be an excuse.”
    We followed the Turtle a few yards to a hollow in the embankment. Someone had dug a hole under the fence.
    “That’s where he went in,” said the Turtle.
    “Who?” I said.
    “The fellow. The dead fellow.”
    Vicky was blowing smoke out of her nostrils and staring up at the tilted razor-wire top that was added to the Cyclone fence after the day the dead man was found in reservoir waters. A man who had been floating in the water supply for some time.
    The Turtle said, “I knew him.”
    Vicky said, “No one knew him.”
    “I did,” said the Turtle. “The Great Wesley did.”
    The Turtle said, “The fellow was a homo and this was difficult. His parents were never in the mood for this information. They sent him to the Barbara V. Hermann Home for Adolescent Rest. The Great Wesley and I were so fond of him. We were saddened by the news of his self-inflicted homicide.”
    “Suicide,” said Vicky.
    “Not at all,” said the Turtle. “It was murder.”
    Vicky snorted. “You can’t murder yourself.”
    The Turtle shook his head. “If only he had known.”
    Vicky said, “I’m not feeling anything. If this Creeper is a burn, Turtle, I’m serious. You do not want to know what I do to people who burn me.”
    I leaned my head forward because I felt like I was going to throw up.
    Vicky said, “You feeling it, Roberta? You getting the rushes? Look at me. Let me check your eyes.”
    But my eyes were normal. Chills came clawing up my back. Was it the rushes? Something was happening. My jaws felt tight. I said, “I heard he was in there for at least five days before they found him. You guys ever wonder how much of the dead guy’s water you drank?”
    Vicky made a little heaving sound. She shivered. Was because of the Creeper? I looked over at the Turtle. His face was very calm. His eyes were on the pulsing jets. Who was he? What was his deal?
    “I’m having a nic fit,” said Vicky. Her hands were shaking bad.
    The Turtle pulled out his Copenhagen and told her how to do it, how to pinch up the tobacco and how wedge it inside her lip. Vicky tried it. Her eyes watered and she started spitting violently. Little black flecks were