Page 55 of A Long Con

Kokami, that was some swift current. Already up to my waist, my waterlogged leather jacket soaked in even more water. I held my arms above the flood and walked like Herman Munster, only occasionally pirouetting in a sissy fashion as the current got the better of me.

I was reminded of a storyline I’d done in the WWE. I’d been a zombie of some kind, walking with heavy monster boots and stiff legs. I seemed an easy target, but I was invincible. Guys could smash me with chairs and I’d keep ticking. The key was that, in my mind, I was untouchable. It somehow translated into reality, because I don’t recall getting a simple bruise. So I thought like that now, and I kept on trucking through the current, passing the Chevy.

“Eat shit and die, motherfuckers!”

Was that my imagination, or was the tubby Hogshead yelling that while clambering up the cliff face with a heavy backpack? His boss must’ve been some evil bruiser, how afraid he seemed to be of not bringing the bacon home. It threw me off, and I stumbled on a fucking rock.

I was down for the count. The weight of my own hair seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. I went under, the strength of the tide bearing me downstream.

I remembered a story about a guy stuck in a slot canyon here, or maybe Utah. The rushing tide jammed him between two boulders. When the water receded, he was stranded. Pinned. He had no choice but to cut his own arm off with a Swiss army knife.

The towering canyon walls were maybe twenty yards away, but I could’ve easily been stuck in between two boulders in the stream. I tumbled like a weed in the icy water, cartwheeling wildly and banging against rubble, sand gritting my teeth.

I bashed up against something hard, metallic. The Chevy. Grabbing onto a taillight, I hauled myself halfway out of the stream. Spitting mouthfuls of water, I smeared my hair out of my face. It had been rolled up into a man bun, but the force of the water had torn it from my skull. Now I dripped like a genuine swamp thing, and I staggered to the dry shore.

Berkeley was already there, wringing out his T-shirt on his wiry frame.

Wiping my face with my hand, I shouted, “What? What’re you doing already here?”

He grinned. “I plunged in right after you.”

I snorted water. “You didn’t get washed away because your hair’s short.”

“Not as much mass for the force to push against.”

I tried to ignore him, squeezing out my own hair. “Can you see him?”

Berkeley pointed. “He’s jamming around about there. See where that spire is, with about eight levels of red velvet cake?”

“I think—yeah, I see him! I can’t believe he got that fucking far carrying that weight.”

“He might actually know where he’s going. Let’s go the same way.”

The canyon wall was completely unstable. Handfuls of sand came away when we attempted to scramble up. There must’ve been a thousand-foot drop to the floor up where Hogshead was. I was first due to my wrestling experience, but I soon realized I was grabbing and stepping on crumbling rocks that rained down on Berkeley. The terrain steepened all at once, now BASE-jumping land.

I reached a hand down for Berkeley. “You go first. I’m used to shit pouring down on my head.”

I helped him pass me, even giving him a hand up on the butt.

“He’s still climbing,” panted Berkeley.

We hauled ourselves over a tricky lip. These edges were very rounded, and you couldn’t see what was above until you dragged yourself up and over. When I let myself rest a few seconds, panting too, I saw that Hogshead was about twelve hundred feet over the floor, attaching himself to sheer rimrock like a spider. How the fuck did that chubby guy get to be so athletic? From what little I knew of him, he was just a wannabe art collector, a small-time dealer like myself working for some billionaire tyrant named Henry Gildersleeve. I didn’t care who I sold artwork to. Why vet them, when I was so unvettable myself?

Gildersleeve must’ve really wanted these artworks to terrify Hogshead into acting so irrationally. He was now nearly to the top, and we were clambering over a shelf somewhere in the middle. I knew we could catch him running once we made the summit. I kept my eyes closed half the time due to Berkeley’s high-top sneakers raining sandstone down on me.

From the rim, there came a gunshot.

I froze, as did Berkeley. The boom told me it was a large caliber, maybe a 45 cal. As it reverberated down the canyon, Berkeley and I looked at each other, wide-eyed. Why would Hogshead kill himself after achieving such a height?

We had our answer a brief second later, when his head came bouncing down the canyon.

Yes, just a fucking head. It’s burned into my retinas the shocked look on his stupid face. I’d be shocked too if I shot myself, then somehow managed to decapitate myself. The skull tumbled on by, smashing itself wide open on a rock outcropping below. A pantsless leg sailed on by, only to bash itself in two on another craggy prominence.

I waited for the backpack to cruise on down.

“Fuck!” yelled Berkeley, still drenching me in sand. “Something just landed on me! It’s got hair attached to it!”

Hogshead’s body was pinballing all over the canyon, being dashed into bits on different boulders and rims.