A Man of Means by No Means

Terri Griffith and Nicholas Alexander Hayes

Lander’s manager seems to shimmer in the doorway. “You missed the show,” his voice drawls over the smoke of his cigarette. “Band’s gone home. They don’t get paid if you don’t sing.” The beefy man pulls the stick thin singer to the motel bed. “Where you get the drugs?” Smoke seeps from the manager’s mouth.

“Don’t do drugs no more ‘cause I’m high on life,” Lander says, swaying before falling back to the ground.

“Lander, I don’t need this shit. Check out’s tomorrow at ten, and you can find your own way back to Tennessee.”

“Fuck you. Fuck you and your cowboy music,” Lander says, struggling to undo his gold tigereye buckle. He hurls the buckle trailed by a snakeskin belt at the door, but the manager is already gone. He throws his ostrich boots at the TV. “I am the fucking music.” Pulling his guitar case to him, he dumps his black Fender Resonator onto the floor and tears the lining looking for his stash of K. He slips his hand between the soft fabric and protective shell and retrieves four plastic bags that he slips into his pocket.

He stands and grabs an unopened fifth of whiskey from the bed. “Fucking fake-ass back-up band can’t hold me captive. It’s my pretty face that gets them on CMT,” he says to himself. He decides he will find something real before walking into darkness toward the highway and the familiar sounds of distant trains.

***

When Lander wakes his face feels burnt, but liquid is running down his lips. He rolls over; his eyes are still clenched.

Someone kicks him in the ass. The main force is absorbed by his muscle, but the follow through brings the pointy toe of the boot up to his coccyx with enough force to wake him. “Get the fuck up.” The boy’s voice is small but angry.

He rolls toward the voice.

A teenage boy stands over him, cramming his own dick back into his jeans. He zips up. Behind him another boy stands. They are both lean shadows outlined by the hazy sun.

“Get up,” the other boy says with a deeper voice.

Lander stands and the boys, still behind him, force him to walk through the Hawthorn and scrub that lines the side of the tracks. Deep red thorns catch his shirt and prod the gashes on his arms, which he holds up to prevent the branches from scratching his eyes.

The young men urge him forward through the brush into a field. The former system of soy rows linger under the encroaching weeds and crab grass. Tiger lilies and corn flowers lend beauty to the field despite the brutal conquest of entropy. The estate stretches for a great distance bordered by the Hawthorn hedge, an access route, and the horizon.

“You a fucking narc?” one of the teens asks ramming a knuckle in Lander’s back.

“Just passing through. Just passing through,” Lander says, stumbling as his feet sink in the aerated earth.

After ten minutes, they reach a sagging barn where occasional flecks of white paint still cling to the weathered wood. A broad shouldered young man with a blonde mullet is dangling his feet out the door of the trailer, which props up one side of the barn. The trailer has been precariously parked on six cinder block pillars. His feet, black with filth, swing back and forth. He drags his big toes in the dirt. The young man wears a pair of stone washed jeans and a green letter jacket without an undershirt. He is drinking something from a yellow teacup.

“Look Walsh,” the first boy yells, “Jackson found us a fucking cop.”

“Jackson and Cody,” Walsh says, pausing to sip from his cup, “This dude’s probably a bum. Look at his clothes. Shit, he don’t even have shoes.”

“Well, we can’t let him go. He’s seen too much.”

“Is that so?” Walsh says and sets his cup on the doorjamb. “Tell me, what’s he seen?”

“Well, we got the meth lab in the barn,” says Cody.

“Did you take him to the barn?” the young man asks.

“No,” both boys say looking at each other for verification.

Walsh shakes his head and walks over to their captive. “Well, we can’t let you go just yet. But you look ok. You hungry?” He says putting his arm around Lander’s shoulder. He leads Lander to the front door and hoists him up.

As Lander pulls himself half-way in, the young man below pushes his ass with a sure hand. Lander jerks a little and knocks over the yellow cup. It is empty.

“Sorry about my friends, but we just need to make sure you’re cool.”

The trailer is mostly gutted. Small engines and large appliances are scattered over the room in various stages of dismantlement. A tattered orange, corduroy sofa is pushed against one wall. There is a counter perched at the far end. Exposed wiring from where the stove, refrigerator and dishwasher have been ripped out hangs from the walls. On the wall where the refrigerator was is a black organic triangle of what appears to be mold. But as Lander’s eyes adjust he realizes it is a simple scroll in Sharpie repeated a near infinite number of times. On the wall opposite door is a built-in pie safe filled with whole cases of Sudafed and cleaning supplies. On either side of the pie safe are two metal shelves filled with 2-liter bottles of Pepsi and Mountain Dew, assorted cans of spray paint, and boxes of Slim Jims.

“We haven’t got much to eat but help yourself,” the young man says, gesturing to shelves. “We’re not used to people coming around. My friends are a little anxious.”

Lander grabs a bottle of Pepsi, “May I use a cup?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Lander takes a cup and blows the dust out. He pulls the whiskey from his back pocket and pours a finger in the cup then fills the rest with Pepsi.

“Shit, I haven’t had a drop to drink in months. My boys aren’t old enough to buy booze when they get supplies.”

“Help yourself.” Lander hands the bottle to his captor.

“Listen, I know you are just passing through, fell off a train, got stranded hitchhiking, whatever. My boys are a little paranoid. Don’t worry, if you stay a couple of days they’ll think you’re family and let you go. No problem.”

“Well, maybe I should leave now.”

“Can’t let you do that.”

“What are they going to do?” Lander downs his drink and moves toward the door.

“Listen, don’t. Just because they ain’t old enough to buy booze doesn’t mean they can’t buy guns. Jackson has a thing for nine millimeters and shit, I have no idea what Cody’s carrying now. But he’s been buying conversion kits.”

“Walsh, I really have to get back home.”

“Just a few days. Listen, I know it’s difficult but just ride it out. They’re good guys. It’s just because I’m the only one who knows how to make the stuff that they won’t let me leave.” Walsh snaps into a Slim Jim and stares at Lander. “You seem familiar. Don’t I know you?”

“Well, we did just meet.”

“Smart ass,” the lay chemist says turning to the corner of the room and starting to pull CDs from a busted up canvass rucksack. “Fuck yeah, I knew this was you.” Walsh flashes a CD.

“Probably,” Lander says, swigging the last bit of his whiskey.

“You guys are great, man. So why you out here? You have a fucking CD.”

“The band’s on a bit of a hiatus. The money just burnt a hole in my pocket.”

“Money does tend to do that.”

Lander nods and fills his cup with more Pepsi.

Jackson yells in from the outside.

“Hey, he’s coming tomorrow.”

Walsh nods to the boy in the affirmative.

“Go ahead and crash out. I need to help out the boys. Our distributor is picking up a shipment tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Lander says and lies down on the orange sofa.

***

He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep when he hears the soft tread of Walsh’s sneakers and the ruffling of the scalding air. He sinks through the evening, the movement of the planes of light from the windows. Something hard and warm presses against his chin. A small circle of metal.

He slowly opens his eyes.

Jackson’s face covers the entire range of his sight. “You’re all bullshit.” There is a pleasing symmetry to the face: long and lean, a faint rose of acne with magenta scratches on his cheek. His dirty blonde hair is shaved close to the skull, but flecks of dandruff still float at the ends of the follicles. “Walsh says you’re a music star, heard you in Nashville.” Jackson bangs Lander’s chin with the barrel of his PM9. His eyes are shallow blue, like the bloated belly of an over-fed fish.

Lander tries to scoot back but the boy pins him with his pelvis a stiff bulge pushes into the singer.

“I think only bitches lie.” The boy sniffles, his nostrils raw and chipped.

The other kid appears beside the captive’s ear: “We like to fuck bitches.” The words are moist and have the smell of stale teeth, un-brushed for several days. The other kid pulls out a baggie of white powder and opens it for Jackson; then he forces an unopened Slim Jim across Lander’s mouth and kneels on his captive’s hands. The plastic cuts into his cheeks.

Jackson pulls down his jeans. The denim abrades Lander’s hips. Jackson forces his unlubed dick up Lander’s anus.

Lander’s asshole tears and burns. He hates that a primal pleasure forces him to get a hard-on, so he tries to kick his assailant off.

Cody lets go of the Slim Jim for a moment and takes the cigarette from his mouth, touching the cherry to Lander’s long earlobe. Lander freezes; his asshole puckers making the thrusting more excruciating, more divine.

When Jackson finally pulls out, Lander feels something leak from his ass, but he can’t tell if it is blood or jizz.

Cody quickly stands and drops his pants. He hobbles to the other side of the captive. His erection bobbling as he chicken walks.

Jackson still has his shorts off. His unwashed asshole smashes into Lander’s face. The bones in the boy’s ass press down. Lander can’t breath. He starts hyperventilating.

Cody slams his dick into Lander’s forcibly loosened asshole.

Jackson chants, “Lick, lick, lick.” With every syllable he punches Lander in the chest. The captive moves his tongue around the tight hole but Jackson continues his chant and angry percussion. A warm jet covers his chest as the pounding continues with an even more strained chorus. Lander realizes he has come. Cody stops thrusting. Lander lets the darkness overtake him.

When he comes to, he is in Walsh’s lap. The man’s firm hands are wiping his face with baby wipes.

“Sorry about that. The boys get their own supply of crystal. Normally they just fuck each other up. I couldn’t leave the equipment, earlier. Too much risk of an explosion.”

Lander nods. He licks his teeth and grimaces—he still tastes Jackson.

“I have an old toothbrush and some Listerine.” Walsh pushes them toward the naked victim. He grabs the Listerine and brush and walks to the front door.

Stars blanket the moonless sky, spilling an ambient light over the plain. He gurgles the Listerine then scrubs every surface in his mouth, hoping to cleanse himself of his memories of guilt and pleasure. He gurgles again and sprays the mouthful out into the yard. “I have to go.”

“You can’t right now. They’re out there walking the perimeter. Fully armed. New guns. Girl guns if you ask me. Just wait, maybe a day or so more. They already think highly of you since they fucked you instead of shooting you.” Walsh holds out his palm to reveal the irregular scar of a bullet wound. “Let me finish cleaning you up,” Walsh says grabbing a fistful of wipes. He kneels before Lander and wipes up the blood and semen that have leaked from his anus and trailed down his long, smooth legs.

Walsh strokes Lander’s thigh after it has been cleaned. The two boys are dismantling a law mower in the area that used to be the kitchen. The hostage sits and the chemist envelopes his cold limbs.

“Soon, soon you can go.”

The sun burns through the window abrading Lander’s skin. A police siren blurts momentarily and Lander sits up. His special K is deep in his pocket. The copper sheriff’s car glints gold in the unforgiving sunset. Escape, the wisp of a man thinks.

Lander moves to the door. “Officer,” he yells, motioning toward the trailer.

The sheriff, a man in his mid-thirties lean and appealing in his tan uniform, waves at the captive. He trips over some disemboweled appliances as he enters the barn. A few moments later the sheriff, Walsh, and the two boys exit. They carry several shoeboxes and place them in the truck.

“Sheriff,” the captive yells, “Help.”

The sheriff slams the trunk down.

Walsh motions for Lander to stop, but he won’t.

“Listen boy,” the sheriff says—the boys swoop from either side, “From what I see, you’re trespassing and these boys could legally shoot you. So you should be lucky they just want to shoot their loads.”

Jackson and Cody laugh and each grapple a leg and arm, pulling Lander’s bare ass out of the elevated door. They let him hover for a moment as the sheriff undoes his pants.

Shocked, Lander tries to struggle but can’t once the sheriff is deep in his raw hole.

The captive tries to shit the dick out to no avail.

“You boys have got this just loose enough,” the sheriff says, taking his time to enjoy the squirming man’s discomfort.

“This fag’s got to like a real man,” Jackson says, squeezing Lander’s inadvertent erection.

“Sure enough, sure enough,” the sheriff says firing a load into Lander.

Exhausted, the sheriff’s legs give out and he tumbles to the ground, tearing his victim from the boys’ hands, pulling Lander directly on top of him. He pushes Lander aside, then stands and dusts himself off. “Boys, as usual, nice doing business with you.”

Like jackals, the boys are soon atop their captive.

Dust kicks up from the tires as the sheriff speeds across the field, blurting his siren.

The boy’s thrusting forces Lander’s mouth into the grass. The dry blades cut into his bruises. The boys try to shove both their dicks into his battered ass at one time but failing to coordinate they must take turns thrusting and finally just jizz on him instead.

Jackson grabs the captive’s balls and twists until they ache and feel like they’ll burst. “That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl,” he says before spitting onto the cum and wiping some of the funk off with a handful of dry grass.

Walsh who has been waiting by the barn rushes over after the boys have returned to the trailer, “See my friend, they already like you.” He helps the battered captive back into the trailer and sets him on the sofa. Walsh brings him a Slim Jim and a bottle of Pepsi.

Lander places the jerky on the floor and takes a long drink from the bottle.

“Pass that over when you’re done,” Jackson yells.

Cody turns his head from the corner where he is drawing. “Yeah we’re thirsty.”

Lander reaches into his shoe and pulls out all four baggies of Ketamine. “Sure.” Palming his cache, he pours them into the bottle, puts the cap back on and turns it upside down.

“Don’t be a fucker. Don’t shake up the Pepsi.” Jackson throws a wrench and hits Lander in the middle of his chest.

Lander gasps and brings the bottle to his captors—all three huddle in the kitchen. Cody seizes it, takes a long drink and passes it to Jackson. It makes several circuits. Each time Lander takes the bottle and pretends to drink.

After a few minutes, Walsh puts his hand on Lander’s shoulder and crawls into the corner, falling asleep. Jackson’s hand begins to shake more than usual. His screwdriver clanks against the engine casing. He continues to work, trying to turn screws but failing, he slips to the ground spilling the doped bottle. Lander stoops to pick it up. He looks into Cody’s face and taps on his chest knocking him over.

Lander quickly moves to take down Jackson’s pants. As the denim bunches at his thighs, his gun reveals itself. Lander slips it from between Jackson’s boxers and jeans. He fingers the handle and presses the barrel against Jackson’s tight button. It takes a little pressure but the square barrel eases into the boy. Lander quickly turns his attention to Cody. His Umbros slide smoothly off and his old briefs tear like tissue. Lander pats him down but can’t find his gun. Underneath a pile of scrap metal, he sees the blocky arch of an Uzi. He fishes the gun from the heap. The body is much too large for insertion but there is almost two inches of barrel that can be inserted. Narrower than the Kahr, it slips in easily. Lander has a warm hallow feeling in his gut, and doesn’t notice his finger knock the trigger until three bursts explode. Gore speckles his face.

Jackson groans but no one wakens. Black pools around Cody’s body. The decision is obvious and he reaches over and pulls Jackson’ trigger.

Walking to the faucet, he washes his hands. His CD sits on the counter. He retrieves Cody’s Sharpie and writes, “Real Love, Lander” on the liner notes. He slips the jewel case between Walsh’s bent thigh and stomach. He presses his lips to the young man’s lips. Walsh moans, and Lander chews the bottom one. He wants to fuck the passed out guy, but can’t get a hard-on. So he abandons his attempt.

Lander grabs a clean two-liter of Mountain Dew and a box of Slim Jims and stuffs them all into a blue plastic Wal-Mart bag.

***