pillow. "One of these days you're going to leave me, and I wouldn't blame you!"
Cummings stroked her hair, rubbed her back. "Honey, honey. I'd never leave you. Never. I promise. You'll get better soon, and everything will be all right. In the meantime—"
Cummings’ darker half spoke up. In the meantime, you greased pig, you'll carry coke for a dealer...
"In the meantime." he said, "I've got it covered. That raise—"
What raise, you lying asshole? The only raise you've ever gotten is from a coke peddler. Give yourself a slap on the hack, buddy. You're running product for the same people who sell crack to teeny-boppers...
"—that raise I got at work will take care of us fine. So don't worry."
She sniffled on, hitching under the covers. "You're so good to me. One day, I promise, I'll make it up to you, I swear." Then she feebly dragged the sheet up over her rump, and pulled up her nightgown. " Υο u can if you want I want you to, darling."
Cummings felt like a cad. Here was his wife, sick and despondent and crying, yet offering herself for his pleasure. He couldn't. Enticing as her backside looked, he couldn't...
"Sweetheart, go to sleep now. There'll be plenty of time for that later, when you're better."
"You're such a wonderful man," she murmured, and then drifted off.
Cummings covered her up. then padded to the kitchen. Oh, yes, it had been a long time, his erection was proof. He stood in the dark, in front of the kitchen sink, and masturbated, shucking his penis like an ear of corn. He could imagine how he'd appear to any onlooker: A grown man, a cop, beating his meat over the sink. Nevertheless, he orgasmed rather quickly, ejaculated, then sighed. The lines ο f his semen lay like white slug trails in the bottom of the stainless-steel sink. He turned on the faucet, washed it all down the drain, like the gravy off of last night's Salisbury steak TV dinner...
For the whole time, though, he'd thought only of Kath. in her past days of beauty and voraciousness, and never of anyone else. Now that he was a "drug runner," many "opportunities" came his way. Junkies and shack hags and groupies, all hanging out at the drop-point, and all offered for his pleasure. Some of them weren't bad looking. They came with the trade.
But each time, Cummings declined, thinking of the real things in life, and his real promises. Driving point was one thing. Fucking junkie whores was another. He'd wait instead, sipping beer and smoking Lucky, while Spaz knocked the bottom out of them, his speedfreak face twitching...
He could’ve cried himself just then, that part of him which condemned what he was doing.
What else can I do! he exclaimed.
No answer was forthcoming.
He went back to bed and lay in the dark, Kath asleep at his side. He gazed up into the abyssal darkness as though it were the face of every mystery of humankind The nightsounds—spring peepers, crickets, hoot owls— seemed to merge with the icy moonlight streaming in through the window, to form a different sound, a more subjective one, a sound that only his wide-open soul could hear. The sound of the deepest chasms, or of the highest places of the earth...
And still more sounds haunted him when he drifted off into fitful sleep. The sound of nightmares...
Jesus...
The sound of a power drill fitted with a three-inch hole-saw. The sound of muted screams, and of bone smoking under 2500-rpm steel teeth. The sound—
—yes!
The sound of faceless hayseeds, of anonymous backwoods rednecks, chuckling as—
—as—
Jesus Christ, get me out of this dream!
—as heads...
Were humped...
The sound was evil. The sound was darkness, the uttermost darkness of the human mind. What could be conceived of more dark than this?
Humping... heads?
And the sound descended, a funnel to hell, fricatives and sybilants and murmurings as black as anthracite, as black as the gaps in the molars of the devil, and as black as his thoughts—
Cummings roused
Cummings stroked her hair, rubbed her back. "Honey, honey. I'd never leave you. Never. I promise. You'll get better soon, and everything will be all right. In the meantime—"
Cummings’ darker half spoke up. In the meantime, you greased pig, you'll carry coke for a dealer...
"In the meantime." he said, "I've got it covered. That raise—"
What raise, you lying asshole? The only raise you've ever gotten is from a coke peddler. Give yourself a slap on the hack, buddy. You're running product for the same people who sell crack to teeny-boppers...
"—that raise I got at work will take care of us fine. So don't worry."
She sniffled on, hitching under the covers. "You're so good to me. One day, I promise, I'll make it up to you, I swear." Then she feebly dragged the sheet up over her rump, and pulled up her nightgown. " Υο u can if you want I want you to, darling."
Cummings felt like a cad. Here was his wife, sick and despondent and crying, yet offering herself for his pleasure. He couldn't. Enticing as her backside looked, he couldn't...
"Sweetheart, go to sleep now. There'll be plenty of time for that later, when you're better."
"You're such a wonderful man," she murmured, and then drifted off.
Cummings covered her up. then padded to the kitchen. Oh, yes, it had been a long time, his erection was proof. He stood in the dark, in front of the kitchen sink, and masturbated, shucking his penis like an ear of corn. He could imagine how he'd appear to any onlooker: A grown man, a cop, beating his meat over the sink. Nevertheless, he orgasmed rather quickly, ejaculated, then sighed. The lines ο f his semen lay like white slug trails in the bottom of the stainless-steel sink. He turned on the faucet, washed it all down the drain, like the gravy off of last night's Salisbury steak TV dinner...
For the whole time, though, he'd thought only of Kath. in her past days of beauty and voraciousness, and never of anyone else. Now that he was a "drug runner," many "opportunities" came his way. Junkies and shack hags and groupies, all hanging out at the drop-point, and all offered for his pleasure. Some of them weren't bad looking. They came with the trade.
But each time, Cummings declined, thinking of the real things in life, and his real promises. Driving point was one thing. Fucking junkie whores was another. He'd wait instead, sipping beer and smoking Lucky, while Spaz knocked the bottom out of them, his speedfreak face twitching...
He could’ve cried himself just then, that part of him which condemned what he was doing.
What else can I do! he exclaimed.
No answer was forthcoming.
He went back to bed and lay in the dark, Kath asleep at his side. He gazed up into the abyssal darkness as though it were the face of every mystery of humankind The nightsounds—spring peepers, crickets, hoot owls— seemed to merge with the icy moonlight streaming in through the window, to form a different sound, a more subjective one, a sound that only his wide-open soul could hear. The sound of the deepest chasms, or of the highest places of the earth...
And still more sounds haunted him when he drifted off into fitful sleep. The sound of nightmares...
Jesus...
The sound of a power drill fitted with a three-inch hole-saw. The sound of muted screams, and of bone smoking under 2500-rpm steel teeth. The sound—
—yes!
The sound of faceless hayseeds, of anonymous backwoods rednecks, chuckling as—
—as—
Jesus Christ, get me out of this dream!
—as heads...
Were humped...
The sound was evil. The sound was darkness, the uttermost darkness of the human mind. What could be conceived of more dark than this?
Humping... heads?
And the sound descended, a funnel to hell, fricatives and sybilants and murmurings as black as anthracite, as black as the gaps in the molars of the devil, and as black as his thoughts—
Cummings roused
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