holes had been punched into it, letting in some light but absolutely no breeze. The
holes were bigger than quarters, smaller than silver dollars. He looked over his
shoulder and saw another line of holes, but the two door vents were also almost
completely covered.
“They’ve frozen my assets,” Grunwald said in a heavy put-upon voice. “Did an audit
first, said it was all just routine, but I know what they do, and I knew what was
coming.”
Of course you did, because you were guilty as hell.
“But even before the audit, I developed this cough. That was your work, too, of
course. Went to the doctor. Lung cancer, neighbor, and it’s spread to my liver and
stomach and fuck knows what else. All the soft parts. Just what a witch would go for.
I’m surprised you didn’t put it in my balls and up my ass as well, although I’m sure
it’ll get there in good time. If I let it. But I won’t. That’s why, although I think I’ve got this business out here covered, my, you know, ass in diapers, it doesn’t matter
even if I don’t. I’m going to put a bullet through my head pretty soon. From this very gun, neighbor. While I’m in my hot tub.”
He sighed sentimentally.
“That’s the only place I’m happy anymore. In my hot tub.”
Curtis realized something. Maybe it was hearing The Motherfucker say I think I’ve
got this business out here covered, but more likely he had known for some time now.
The Motherfucker meant to tip the Port-O-San over. He was going to do that if Curtis
blubbered and protested; he was going to do it if Curtis held his peace. It didn’t really
matter. But for the time being, he held his peace anyway. Because he wanted to stay upright as long as possible—yes, of course—but also out of dreadful fascination.
Grunwald wasn’t speaking metaphorically; Grunwald actually believed Curtis
Johnson was some kind of sorcerer. His brain had to be rotting along with the rest of
him.
“LUNG CANCER! ” Grunwald proclaimed to his empty, deserted development—and
then began coughing again. Crows cawed in protest. “I quit smoking thirty years ago, and I get lung cancer NOW? ”
“You’re crazy,” Curtis said.
“Sure, the world would say so. That was the plan, wasn’t it? That was the fucking
PLAAAAN. And then, on top of everything else, you sue me over your damn ass-faced dog? Your damn dog that was on MY PROPERTY? And what was the purpose of that?
After you’d taken my lot, my wife, my business, and my life, what possible purpose?
Humiliation, of course! Insult to injury! Coals to Newcastle! Witchcraft! And do you
know what the Bible says? Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live! Everything that’s happened to me is your fault, and thou shalt not suffer a witch… TO LIVE! ”
Grunwald shoved the Port-O-San. He must have really put his shoulder into it,
because there was no hesitation this time, no tottering. Curtis, momentarily weightless, fell backward. The latch should have broken under his weight, but didn’t. The
Motherfucker must have done something to that, too.
Then his weight returned and he crashed down on his back as the portable toilet hit
the ground door-first. His teeth snapped shut on his tongue. The back of his head
connected with the door and he saw stars. The lid of the toilet opened like a mouth.
Brown-black fluid, thick as syrup, vomited out. A decomposing turd landed on his
crotch. Curtis gave a cry of revulsion, batted it aside, then wiped his hand on his shirt, leaving a brown stain. A vile creek was spilling out of the gaping toilet seat. It ran down the side of the bench seat and pooled around his sneakers. A Reese’s Peanut
Butter Cup wrapper floated in it. Streamers of toilet paper hung out of the toilet’s
mouth. It looked like New Year’s Eve in hell. This absolutely could not be happening.
It was a nightmare left over from childhood.
“How’s the smell in there now, neighbor?” The Motherfucker called. He was laughing
and coughing. “Just like home, isn’t it? Think of it as a twenty-first-century gayboy