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Teaser
The utility van skittered to a halt on the
gravel drive. Burnt orange dust blew past the windows, tiny
particles clinging to the glass like no-see-ums on skin. Two curs,
one perhaps resembling an Irish setter and the other a small, toothy
yap with vacant brown eyes, launched themselves off the trailer
porch in a flurry of growls and teeth.
Peter hastily retracted his leg and
slammed the door. The dogs circled the van expectantly.
“Red Dawg! Skowl! Stop that barkin’ and
git yer tails back on this porch right now, afor I git my switch!”
A paisley tent with greasy reddish hair had appeared on the
makeshift landing, flabby bare arms akimbo. “Didja hear me?” She
stuck out a pale ankle as big around as Peter’s whole body and took
a single lumbering step.
The dogs immediately
stopped their berserker attack and slunk away through a hole in the
singlewide’s foundation blocks.
“Yew can git out
now,” rasped the woman. Her face and arms were mottled red with
purplish spots here and there. Sweat trailed down her cheeks and
dripped from her pug nose.
Peter took a
tentative step from the van, but paused as the dogs growled loudly
from their cowardly vantage. Ready to jump back in if necessary, he
called, “I’m Peter Hamelin from Pied Piper Pest Punchers. A Mr.
Earl phoned about a roach problem.”
From the far left of
the unkempt dwelling, through a tiny screened window, filtered a
deep singsong voice, “I’m on the sheeter…I’ll be thar in a minute.”
“Come on in. Them
dawgs ain’t gonna bother yew no more.” The big woman returned
sideways through the front door, one arm jangling invitingly.
Peter slammed the
van and made his way up the short stairs to the aluminum threshold.
Growling from below intensified. With a deep breath, he plunged
into the gloom.
It took a moment for
his eyes to adjust to the dimness, but they really didn’t need to.
He had seen it all before; trailer trash made his best clients
because of the way they lived. Sure enough, the interior was full
of crumpled beer cans, assorted food wrappers, dirty piles of
clothes, carpet that had never been vacuumed—detritus from floor to
ceiling.
The
place stank, of course. Body odor, soured clothing and other darker
smells plagued his nose. A blaring television offered up the only
variation in color beyond that of tan dinginess. Oh yes, this would
be a roach heaven for sure…and possibly other critters too.
“My
name’s Willy Jack. Howya doin’?” A pale, skinny young man—twenty-ish—with
long black hair and bad teeth, offered up a bowl of popcorn from his
perch on the arm of a lumpy sofa. “Want some?” A filthy fingernail
rose into the depths of a nostril, which was subsequently wiped on a
ragged blue-jean leg.
“No
thanks,” Peter quickly replied. It seemed rather incongruous that
the huge lump of a woman taking up fully half of the overstuffed
sofa could have a scarecrow for a son.
A
whooshing noise, followed by a loud slam, accompanied the entrance
of a person who caused Peter to take a step backward. The belly
arrived first, followed seconds later by a stained t-shirt that
barely made it to the sternum. A black cap sporting a
skull-and-crossbones said, “I’m the Shadow of Death,” and topped a
round head that could only be termed friendly, yet vacant.
Incongruous—it was a word Peter was coming to believe in
wholeheartedly...
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