Grundish & Askew by Lance Carbuncle Page B

gonna do?”
    “I’m sick of the Fuckers in this trailer park. Every day I see those Fuckers out there, and they turn my stomach, you know?” Grundish stuffs two more frumunda cheese sticks in his mouth and chews, and thinks, and chews, and thinks some more. “We are probably the only ones in this trailer park that aren’t registered sex offenders. These people are here because they are despicable. And society has told them that there are only a few places they are allowed to be. And we’re hunkered down right in their midst because we can’t afford to be anywhere nicer.”
    “So, what’re you gonna do about it?”
    Grundish places a cheese stick under Turleen’s nose in the spot where the last nugget was. Turleen doesn’t stir. Neither Grundish nor Askew saw her eat the second nugget. But, it is gone.
    “I’m gonna strike fear into their hearts. I’m gonna get payback for the people they victimized. I know Fuckers like these people. I saw them in the joint all the time.”
    “You mean you saw people
simular
to these guys, right?” Askew asks. “I mean, you don’t recognize any of these people from prison, do you?”
    “Mostly, no. But, uh...” Grundish’s nose wrinkles and his top lip twists up into a sneer. “You know that guy in Lot 49, right down at the end of our lane?”
    Askew nods. “You mean the guy that stands out on the corner and tries to hand out balloon animals to kids?”
    “Yeah, that’s the guy. I know him from the big house. He was what we called a gunner. You know what that is?”
    “Naw. I don’t know that prison slang, man.”
    “A gunner [14] ...well...he’s a guy who stands in his cell playing with himself. He waits for people to walk by, mostly looking for women guards. But, it don’t really matter who it is. Other inmates, guards, whoever. And when somebody walks by, he really start to jack it.”
    “That’s a gunner?” Askew laughs, and a chunk of fried something-or-other falls from his mouth.
    “That’s a gunner,” says Grundish. “And, then there’s the snipers. They run up and try to shoot a load of spunk right on you. And that’s really more what that fella down in Lot 49 was. I think his name in the joint was Bumpy D or something creepy like that.”
    “Damn, Dude. Did he ever shoot off a round at you?”
    “Naah. No fucking way. I would’a split his wig. I’d still kind of like to, anyway. But I’m gonna do something a little different instead.”
    Grundish takes the half-full can of beer that Askew set on the floor and chugs it to chase the rest of his pre-migraine floaters away. He picks up the daypack and pulls out three large packages of semi-frozen hotdogs that he pilfered during his last burglary. In a plastic grocery bag, Grundish loads up the hotdogs and several more cans of beer. “I’m going for a bike ride around the park. You might want to step out and watch some of this.”

9
     
    Turleen sits cross-legged and her joints don’t hurt. Between her fingers dangles an extra-long cancer stick capped with a burning ember.
Oh, good
! she thinks to herself,
I know it’s a dream, but this is the only time I’m able to smoke
. She raises the cigarette to her face and notices that the hand is not wrinkled. The fingers are not bent into arthritic hag-claws. Instead of the liver spots she is used to, there are pinpoint freckles. She places the filter to her moist lips and pulls a deep drag from the smoke, inhaling it into both of her lungs. As she blows it out she doesn’t cough. She smiles, and the back of her neck and her forearms tingle.
Damn, I love these dreams
, she thinks to herself. Turleen leans back and rests her back against the park bench. The sunlight warms her face. A cool breeze blows streamers of bluish vapors from the fireball of her cigarette. She closes her eyes and pulls another hit from the smoke – holding it long in her lungs, enjoying the nicotine rush.
    “Hello,” says the deep, warm voice that stirs Turleen from her