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"Really?" Jane raised an eyebrow.
"He will remember this day always," Charlie said. "That guy will never again have a sexual fantasy in which you do not walk through, probably wearing borrowed shoes. "
"And you don't find that creepy?"
"Well, yes, you're my sister, but it's a seminal moment for Vern. "
Jane nodded. "You're a pretty good guy, Charlie, looking out for a tiny stranger like that. "
"Yeah, well, you know - "
"For an ass bag!" Jane said as she sank a fist into Charlie's solar plexus.
Strangely, as he gasped for breath, Charlie felt that wherever his mother was right now, she was pleased with him.
Bye, Mom, he thought.
PART THREE
BATTLEGROUND
Tomorrow we shall meet,
Death and I -
And he shall thrust his sword
Into one who is wide awake.
- Dag Hammarskjöld
Chapter 19
19
We're OKAY, AS LONG AS THINGS DON'T GET WEIRD
ALVIN AND MOHAMMED
When Charlie arrived home from his mother's funeral, he was met at the door by two very large, very enthusiastic canines, who, undistracted by keeping watch over Sophie's love hostage, were now able to visit the full measure of their affection and joy upon their returning master. It is generally agreed, and in fact stated in the bylaws of the American Kennel Club, that you have not been truly dog-humped until you have been double-dog-humped by a pair of four-hundred-pound hounds from hell (Section 5, paragraph 7: Standards of Humping and Ass-dragging). And despite having used an extra-strength antiperspirant that very morning before leaving Sedona, Charlie found that getting poked repeatedly in the armpits by two damp devil-dog dicks was leaving him feeling less than fresh.
"Sophie, call them off. Call them off. "
"The puppies are dancing with Daddy. " Sophie giggled. "Dance, Daddy!"
Mrs. Ling covered Sophie's eyes to shield her from the abomination of her father's unwilling journey into bestiality. "Go wash hands, Sophie. Have lunch while you daddy make nasty with shiksas. " Mrs. Ling couldn't help but do a quick appraisal of the monetary value of the slippery red dogwoods currently pummeling her landlord's oxford-cloth shirt like piston-driven leviathan lipsticks. The herbalist in Chinatown would pay a fortune for a powder made from the desiccated members of Alvin and Mohammed. (The men of her homeland would go to any length to enhance their virility, including grinding up endangered species and brewing them in tea, not unlike certain American presidents, who believe there is no stiffy like the one you get from bombing a few thousand foreigners. ) Yet it appeared that the desiccated-dog-dick fortune would remain unclaimed. Mrs. Ling had long ago given up on collecting hellhound bits, when after trying to dispatch Alvin with a sharp and ringing blow to the cranium from her cast-iron skillet, he bit the skillet off its handle, crunched it down in a slurry of dog drool and iron filings, and then sat up and begged for seconds.
"Throw some water on them!" Charlie cried. "Down, doggies. Good doggies. Oh, yuck. "
Mrs. Ling was galvanized into action by Charlie's distress call, and timing her move with the oscillating pyramid of man and dog meat in the doorway, dashed by Charlie, into the hallway, and down the steps.
LILY
Lily came up the stairs and skidded to a stop on the hallway carpet when she saw the hellhounds pounding away at Charlie. "Oh, Asher, you sick bastard!"
"Help," Charlie said.
Lily pulled the fire extinguisher off the wall, dragged it to the doorway, pulled the pin, and proceeded to unload on the bouncing trio. Two minutes later Charlie was collapsed in a frosty heap on the threshold and Alvin and Mohammed were locked in Charlie's bedroom, where they were joyfully chewing away on the expended fire extinguisher. Lily had lured them in there when they had tried to bite the CO2 stream, seeming to enjoy the freezing novelty of it over the welcome-home humping they were giving Charlie.
