Chapter 6: The Drooling Dog's Confession
The back door of the Titty Twister groaned on busted hinges, spilling a rectangle of sickly yellow light across the packed dirt. The smell hit first—a thick, sweet reek of rot and chemical lime that burned the nostrils. Beyond the light, the desert was a black void, the only feature a raw, dug-out trench about twenty yards from the building.
Carlos tossed a shovel at Spot’s feet. It clanged on the ground. “Pit’s over there. Almost full. We toss ’em in, you cover ’em. Simple.”
Razor was already at the open freezer, his powerful frame heaving the first stiffened form over his shoulder. It was the biker, Kurt, his eyes milky and wide. “Hurry up, can-opener. Sunrise ain’t a fucking suggestion.”
Spot moved. The work was physical, brutal, a grinding poetry of labor. He dragged the corpses by their ankles through the dirt, their heads lolling, leaving trails in the dust. The ones he’d cut up were worse, leaving gruesome snippets behind that he had to scrabble to collect. His arms screamed. His back knotted. The dried blood on his skin cracked and flaked, mingling with fresh sweat.
Carlos and Razor worked with an efficient, bored speed, chatting about a truck they wanted to steal. They handled the dead like sacks of grain.
Spot did not. He felt every ounce. The dead weight of Richie, who had shared a cigarette with him a lifetime ago, was a confession. The surprising lightness of the girl from the pool table was an accusation. He dragged them to the edge of the pit, a dark maw buzzing with flies, its bottom a sludgy soup of white powder and decomposition. He rolled them in. They landed with wet, final thuds.
“Lime,” Carlos said, nodding to a burlap bag.
Spot took the bag, the powder biting at his lungs as he shook it over the tangled limbs below. The chemical smell surged, fighting the rot. He shoveled dirt until his vision blurred with exhaustion. He did not think. He performed. Each shovelful was a stanza in his new mantra: For her. For her. For her.
By the time the pit was filled and patted down, the eastern sky was a deep, bruise-like purple. The first birds began to whisper.
“Looks like shit,” Razor commented, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“It’ll do,” Carlos said. He glanced at Spot, who stood swaying, the shovel trembling in his blistered hands. “Hell of a first shift, pup. C’mon. Queen’s gotta inspect the goods.”
Back inside, the bar felt like a crypt after the vast, cold desert. The air was warm, stale, heavy with perfume and old blood. Santanico was where they’d left her, now sipping something dark from a crystal glass. Her eyes found Spot immediately, tracking him from the doorway to the foot of her throne. He dropped to his knees without command, the shovel clattering aside.
He was a portrait of ruin: caked in dirt and lime dust, sweat cutting rivers through the blood on his face and neck, his hands raw, his clothes stiff with gore. He breathed in ragged pants, his whole body humming with fatigue.
She set her glass down slowly. The quiet stretched, filled only by his desperate attempts to quiet his breathing.
“The work is done, my queen,” Carlos announced.
“I see that,” she said, her voice a low purr. She leaned forward, her serpent tattoo seeming to coil in the dim light. “Come closer, Spot. Let me see my investment.”
He crawled the few feet forward, stopping when the toes of her bare feet—the feet he had so meticulously cleaned—were inches from his face. He kept his head down, staring at the intricate patterns in the Persian rug, now stained beyond saving.
“Look at me.”
He raised his eyes. The devotion in them was absolute, a furnace burning on the last of his fuel.
A slow smile played on her lips. “You’re sweating,” she observed. “Panting. You look… spent.”
He nodded, a tight jerk of his head.
“Good. A tool should be used until it’s dull.” She extended her right foot, tracing a line in the air just beside his cheek. “You may continue your service.”
Gratitude flooded him, warm and obliterating. He leaned into her foot, nuzzling against her arch, pressing his filthy face to her pristine skin. He kissed it, a dry, chapped press of his lips. He was so tired, so utterly hollowed out, that his focus wavered. As he dragged his tongue along the curve of her arch, a thick, warm strand of saliva escaped his parted lips and splashed onto her skin.
He froze. The world stopped.
Santanico recoiled as if scalded, her foot snapping back. A look of pure, undiluted disgust twisted her features. Then, just as suddenly, it melted into delight. She threw her head back and laughed, a rich, ringing sound that bounced off the empty bottles.
“You’re drooling,” she gasped, wiping a mirthful tear from the corner of her eye. “Like a rabid mutt. That is disgusting, Spot.”
His face burned, a prickling wave of shame that climbed from his neck to his hairline. He wanted to vanish into the floor. “I… I’m sorry, my queen, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”
“Wipe it up,” she said, her laughter dying into a sharp command. She presented her foot again, the silver droplet of his spit glistening on her arch. “With your tongue. Clean your mess.”
He obeyed, his movements frantic. He lapped at the spot, his tongue rough and dry, cleaning not just the saliva but a smudge of dirt his own face had left behind. He polished the skin until it gleamed.
She watched him, her expression now contemplative, cold. “You’re lower than a dog, you know that? A dog has instincts. Pride. You?” She shook her head slowly. “You’re a slug. A parasite I allow to exist because its desperation amuses me. You live because the alternative—your own pathetic self—is too boring to contemplate.”
He whimpered, the sound escaping his chest unbidden. “Yes, my queen. I am nothing. I am the pile of shit you scraped from your boot in the desert.”
She shifted, placing her heel against his cheek. Not a kick, but a steady, increasing pressure, grinding the bone against his jaw. “That’s right. Now tell me, while you can still speak: what are you?”
The pressure built. Pain flared, bright and anchoring. His words choked out around the pressure. “I am your slave. Your bitch. The filth that crawls at your feet and thanks you for the privilege.”
The pressure eased. She smiled, a flash of white in the gloom. “Good. You have a crude understanding of poetry.” She raised her other foot, wiggling her toes. “Now clean this one. The other one feels lonely. And try,” she added, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper, “not to make a mess this time, you worthless insect.”
He moved to her left foot, his approach now trembling with hyper-vigilance. He took her big toe into his mouth, bathing it with precise, measured strokes of his tongue. He was a machine of atonement, every movement calculated, every swallow controlled. He worshipped in terrified silence.
Above him, Santanico took a sip from her glass. She spoke to Carlos, her tone shifting back to business. “We’ll need to open again soon. This little… renovation… can’t hurt cash flow. A week, maybe. Let the gossip die down. Let the new stories start.”
“What about the smell?” Carlos asked.
“Burn some sage. Lots of it. And get the new stock in. The hungry kind, from two towns over. They won’t know the difference.”
“And him?” Razor nodded toward the figure diligently working at Santanico’s feet.
She looked down, running her fingers through Spot’s sweat-damp hair, a grotesque parody of affection. “Him? He stays. He’s part of the new décor. A reminder to our new clients of what happens to unruly pets.” She dug her nails lightly into his scalp. “Won’t you, Spot?”
He released her toe with a soft, wet pop. “Yes, my queen. Whatever you wish.”
“I wish to walk outside tonight,” she said, her gaze drifting to the reinforced door. “I want to feel the desert wind. And you will walk with me. On a leash. So the night can see what belongs to me.”
A fresh, electric current of purpose jolted through his exhaustion. The outside. The open night. He would be seen at her side. Not as a man, but as her thing.
“Thank you,” he breathed into her skin.
She smiled, her eyes already on the horizon beyond the walls, planning the spectacle.