Special Sneak Preview

Be sure to watch for the next installment (Book 4) in the hilarious “Holidazed” series of satires to release in late 2020.

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MURDER BY VALENTINE CANDY

By Gregg Sapp

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PROLOGUE

“God bless America,” Adam Erb said, placing one hand over his heart. He centered himself in front of the American flag hanging on the wall behind him, looked straight into the camera, and spoke into the microphone. “So, until the next time, friends, remember: The truth ain’t right or wrong. It’s just true.”

He then closed out by playing his theme music—a clip from “Sugarfoot Rag.” When it was done, he loaded this latest segment of Talking Truth onto his web page, where subscribers could access it and all his other podcasts, as well as purchase T-shirts, coffee mugs, his books, tote bags, bumper stickers, and other assorted swag.

Sighing, Adam put his feet on the desk, removed his headphones, and pushed back his chair. He reached into a mini-fridge on the floor beside him in his office and cracked open a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. He had only recently acquired a taste for it. For years, he drank craft ales exclusively, dismissing mass-produced lagers as “piss water,” unfit for refined consumption. PBR still was pissy, taste-wise, but after having drank enough of it, he became constipated if he drank anything else. Besides, he didn’t drink PBR as a matter of preference; it was a lifestyle choice. According to data gathered on his website, members of his new demographic consumed PBR more than any other brand. He drank it to show that he was one of them.

Adam belched with satisfaction. It sure felt good to be back on top. He no longer took success for granted, fickle as it was. Seemingly overnight he'd gone from the public considering him a charming ladies’ man to a sexist and a harasser. One complaint about his behavior led to another, and he couldn’t stop them. He never doubted himself, though. After enduring an assault of insults, hostility, accusations, and even a measure of public disgrace, he emerged on the other side with his mojo, money, and rakish good looks fully intact. He did it by remaining steadfast to his principles—that is, he denied everything, at every opportunity. Plus, it didn’t hurt that he had the financial means to settle out of court. A non-disclosure agreement was a beautiful thing. Every relationship should have one.

Sunday was Valentine’s Day, and love was breaking out everywhere across Columbus. Adam was an in-demand catch for appearances at several local venues hoping to cash in on the holiday. He checked his calendar for the next day, Friday. At 9:00 a.m. he would be the guest of honor at the breakfast meeting of the Buckeye State Babes Motorcycle Club, where the ladies would honor him with their coveted Leader of the Pack award. At 11:00 a.m., with the assistance of members of the Columbus Milk Maids roller derby team, he would cut the ribbon at the grand opening of a new Bullseye Outdoor Gear and Target Range in Hilltop. He would have lunch with Ginny Pappas of the WXOF News Squad to discuss business and possibly flirt a little—Ginny didn’t object to a bit of harmless dalliance; he appreciated that about her. Then, throughout the afternoon he would make drop-in appearances to hand out candy valentine hearts to fans at various Big Loots department stores across the greater metropolitan area. A late addition to his schedule was a gig at Daisy Mae’s Moonshiner Tavern, where he would lead the first line dance. Later in the evening, he looked forward to a cozy rendezvous for drinks and intimate pleasures—he just didn’t know yet with whom.

While he was thinking about it, Adam texted Jay-Rome, his driver, to request an 8:00 a.m. pickup.

Five minutes later, Jay-Rome texted him back, “You got it, Boss.”

“That’s 8:00 a.m. sharp. Acknowledge.” Adam did not like to wait—not even five minutes.

This time, Jay-Rome replied within seconds, “Okay, Boss.”

It was getting late. Anymore, Adam could hardly stay awake after ten. Still, before he turned in, he needed to tweet, post a story to his Instagram feed, and he probably should stick something on Facebook, too, since a lot of his fans were in the age group that still used it. Adam never let a day go by without contributing a meme or two to the social media universe. Over the years, he’d lost track of how many hashtag trends he started, both before and after his personal hard times. They surely numbered over a thousand, including several that peaked at number one atop Val Vargas’s daily Trends You Can Use list for Columbus.

On Twitter, he tweeted: #READY-TO-ROLL tomorrow, all over Cow Town. Can’t wait to meet up with all of you guys and gals. I may be in your neighborhood. Check my website for details.

On Instagram and Facebook, he posted a thirty-second video of himself, shirtless beneath bib overalls, wearing a Make America Great Again baseball cap, while he popped the hood on his custom designed and retrofitted GMC pickup / stretch limo to check the oil level. He showed the camera that it was full, then replaced it and dropped the hood.

He commented: Revved up and #READY-TO-ROLL to see all my fans and valentines.

Likes and comments began popping up in his news feed nearly instantaneously. Adam scrolled through them looking for positive reinforcement. Most responses were from fans and familiar names who cheered everything he posted. There were some from the usual haters, too—fuck ‘em; he’d gotten the last laugh.

One posting in particular intrigued him. It read:

I’m #READY-TO-ROLL. I’ll be yours if you ride me hard.

It was from @LadyMuleskinner and the word hard contained a hyperlink. Adam imagined a curvy blond in blue jean short shorts, a plaid blouse knotted over her bare belly, pointy-toed western boots, a straw hat, and maybe with a lasso or a gun belt slung over her shoulder. He couldn’t resist clicking.

The link took him directly to the Erb Is a Dick website, where his enemies continued to taunt him by posting and sharing stories about how and why he was, indeed, a dick. What was wrong with those women that they couldn’t just let bygones be bygones already?

Adam chugged the rest of his beer and crushed the can. Damn it, he couldn’t let that be the last image of the day, the one he took to bed with him. He hovered his fingers over the keyboard. There were many sites that he could visit to cleanse his mind and refresh his spirits. The entirety of World Wide Web, with all its pleasures and wonders, was at his instant disposal. But for some reason he kept returning to the same damn site, where he swore every time that he looked would be his last. It wasn’t healthy for him to go there. But it was like passing a car crash; he couldn’t make himself look away. He typed in just the first two letters of the URL, and his autofill finished the rest for him.

After Adam pressed Enter, his anticipation rose while the beach ball spun. The page loaded in sections. First, the banner, unrolling like a scroll to reveal the word Welcome in calligraphic script against rosé-colored wallpaper. In the center of the page was a heart-shaped padlock, with an old-fashioned skeleton key in the keyhole. By clicking on it, Adam turned the key and opened the page to an inscrutable world occupied by mostly women, but also a growing number of men, who otherwise looked perfectly normal, apart from their affiliation with... what was it? A cult, a club, a fellowship, a secret society, or some other kind of esoteric social organization wherein its members kept each other’s secrets? Adam still wasn’t entirely convinced that the whole SECS movement wasn’t some kind of a prank or bamboozle. If nobody was getting rich off it, then what other purpose could there possibly be for it to exist?

The group’s mission statement was printed in a box across the top of the screen. Beneath it was a Join Now button. Adam had never worked up the guts to press it, not even out of purely academic curiosity. In a right-aligned column was a series of topical links, including the typical ones: About, FAQs, News, Who We Are, Contact Us, For More Information, Schedule of Events, Testimonials, and Shop Our Site, but also peculiar ones to things like Games, Poetry, Recipes, Reading List, Just for Laughs, and Thought for the Day. Adam often amused himself by clicking on any or all of these links, where the content was mostly personal affirmations of the SECS lifestyle, along with the kind of feel-good fluff that you might otherwise find in a Hallmark movie, but which he suspected really contained coded messages for the initiated.

Most intriguing were the personal profiles on the Meet Us link, which was limited to members only, although a handful were presented as teasers for the curious and undecided. Adam studied them carefully—Amber, twenty-eight, who had a degree in special education; Cheri, thirty-four, divorced chiropractor and mother of two; Natalie, eighteen (eighteen! for crying out loud), an undeclared freshman at Ohio State; and Stanley, forty-two, a patent lawyer (wait a minute, was that Stanley—what’s his name—Steadman???) who wrote that he was “sick and tired of playing sex games” and “looking for a lasting relationship.” In their profiles these people looked as normal as vanilla ice cream on white bread. But why they wanted what they wanted and, more to the point, did not want what they did not want made no sense whatsoever to Adam. They might as well reject the air that they breathe.

And yet, he was sorely tempted to join, if only to satisfy his relentless curiosity.

A pair of xenon headlights swept across Adam’s parlor window and cast a blinding glare on his computer screen. He checked his Rolex—10:15 p.m. What the fuck? He went to the window and watched a black sedan approach slowly on the long driveway and then park in the turnaround at the front of his manor. Somebody got out of the car and stretched, as if arriving after a long trip.

Adam jogged to his vault room, logged onto the console of his security system, and toggled the front door camera so that he could catch a glimpse of this unexpected visitor. He magnified the image on the monitor. He turned on the porch lights. The visitor looked straight into the camera and mouthed, “Hell-o Ad-am.”

“Son a bitch,” Adam said to himself.

Adam slipped into a pair of sweatpants, tugged on the belt of his robe, wiggled his feet into his memory-foam slippers, and went to answer the doorbell. When he reached the double doors, he squinted through the peephole, and was startled to see an eyeball look directly back at him. Adam took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Well, what a total surprise this is,” he said. “You look well.”

“I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“Well... no, not at all. I was just checking my email.”

“Can I come in?”

Adam shivered. “Uh, sure. It’s cold enough to freeze a person solid out there. Can I take your coat?”

“Thanks. Maybe you could make something to drink?”

“Oh? Well, sure, of course. Long island iced tea?”

“Whiskey. Straight. Pour one for yourself, too.”

Adam dug his hands into the pockets of his robe and pinched his thigh. It hurt, so this must be really happening. Then he wondered—can you feel pain in a dream?

“What brings you here at this hour?” Adam asked.

“I brought something for you. Here.”

Adam accepted a heart-shaped box with a red bow on it. “Really?” Although he was seldom at a loss for something to say, Adam had no social nicety that seemed to fit this occasion. “Thanks, but....”

“They’re Swiss candies. I picked them out especially for you. It’s a couple days early, but happy Valentine’s Day.”

Adam opened the box and removed a chocolate cordial, tasted it with his tongue, then put it entirely in his mouth. It contained raspberry liqueur and a piece of hard candy that crunched like a Tic Tac in the middle. He chewed, sucked, then swallowed.

“Delicious,” he said. “Uh, I guess I should say happy Valentine’s Day to you too.”

“Have another.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

CHAPTER 1

Jay-Rome arrived half an hour early for the 8:00 a.m. pickup so he could turn on the heater in the Erb-mobile before his boss was ready to roll. On a cold February morning, it took forever for that beast to warm up, and Adam Erb did not like to get into a chilly vehicle. It was worth coming early if it meant giving him one less thing to bitch about.

Besides, this gave Jay-Rome time to catch the question of the day on the talk radio station, where if he knew the correct answer and was the designated caller, he could win the grand prize of up to ten thousand dollars—although most of the time it was just tickets to a Blue Jackets game or dinner for two at Ruth’s Chris Steak House. Still, even though he seldom knew the right answer and usually got a busy signal when he called, he believed that any day he missed would have been the one when he could’ve hit the jackpot. With ten grand in his pocket, he’d tell Adam to “shove it up your Erb.”

He’d always wanted to say that, but doubted he’d ever get a chance. As a convicted drug felon, Jay-Rome knew he was lucky to have any job, even one where his boss regularly insulted and demeaned him.

When Jay-Rome went to punch in the security code, he was surprised to see a smiley face on the keypad’s display, indicating that the garage door was already unlocked. He clearly remembered setting the security system when he’d locked up the previous day. He doubted that his boss would take the Erb-mobile out for a spin on his own—he probably didn’t even have a key—so why was the expensive no-fail security system disengaged?

Something in his chauffeur's sixth sense warned him not to turn on the garage lights. Once his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see why. Gossamer silk curtains were drawn around the passenger windows on all sides of the limo. Through them, Jay-Rome made out dancing blobs of greenish light—lava lamps, Adam’s preferred “mood lighting.” Far in the back of the limo’s interior, where the plush leather love seat pulled out into a queen-sized bed, Jay-Rome saw the shadowy silhouettes of two bodies, backlit by the oscillating colors. So, it looked like his boss had invited a lady friend to spend the night with him in the Erb-mobile. That happened from time to time, although when it did, he normally locked the garage behind them.

In this circumstance, Jay-Rome’s orders were somewhat at odds. On one hand, he had strict instructions to pick up Adam at 8:00 a.m. sharp. On the other hand, Adam had previously forbidden him to interrupt whenever the silk curtains were drawn. While puzzling his next move, Jay-Rome noticed a piece of paper placed under the windshield wipers. He grabbed, unfolded, and read it: “Take me to get donuts.”

Jay-Rome smiled and shook his head. He knew from past experiences where to get those donuts, and the note went on to specify what to order once he got there. Jay-Rome slipped into the driver’s seat and started the car. Before pulling out of the garage, he adjusted the rearview mirror, and saw the two shadowy figures in the back faced each other, woman on top of man.

They’re doing it cowgirl style, right now, he thought. Lucky asshole doesn’t deserve it.

It was tempting to take off and then suddenly slam on the brakes, just to shake them up, but Jay-Rome knew better. He eased the Erb-mobile down the long driveway and turned into the Friday morning traffic.

“¡Ayyyyy!” Tatiana Gonsalves squealed aloud, then whispered to herself, “Here he comes.”

Huck didn’t usually come on Fridays. She wasn’t ready. Her mother had let her oversleep. Never mind that Tatiana had begged her mother to leave her alone when she tried to wake her up; she should’ve tried harder. That left Tatiana with barely enough time to jump into her uniform and run to catch the bus, without putting on makeup, brushing her hair, or checking if her pimple had grown overnight. When she finally got to work five minutes late, her boss, Chavonne Hayes, looked her up and down and said, “Girl, yo’ better get yo’self an alarm clock.”

Tatiana worked the pickup window that morning. She glanced in the fish-eye mirror at the end of the drive-thru to count the number of cars between her and Huck’s Prius. In doing so she made the mistake of glancing at herself. Tatiana hated her reflection in that mirror; it made her look like a space alien with bulging eyes and a bloated forehead, like she should be saying “Take me to your leader” instead of “Welcome to Drip ‘n’ Donuts.” The reflection stretched her nostrils wider than her mouth, and it turned that pimple on her cheek into a miniature Mount Fuji. It was an optical illusion, but she couldn’t act pretty unless she felt pretty, and in that mirror she looked like some kind of freak not even a dog would kiss. When Huck’s car was next in line, Tatiana unbuttoned the top two buttons on the striped blouse of her Drip ‘n’ Donuts uniform. Maybe that would distract him away from her face.

When he pulled next to the pickup window, though, Huck didn’t even look at her, which both relieved and disappointed Tatiana. Instead, he had a tablet computer on his lap, on which he busily entered data into yet another page of those massive spreadsheets he kept. He raised an index finger in the air and continued punching in numbers.

Tatiana slid open the window as far as it could go, shimmied her shoulders all the way through, and leaned forward so when Huck looked up he could not avoid seeing her cleavage.

“Good morning, Tati,” he said, as if he recognized her just by looking down her blouse. If true, that was a good thing. Maybe.

“Hola,” she said.

“How’s your mother?”

“Good.” Tatiana was glad but also resented that Huck and her mother were friends. Their friendship gave her a reliable icebreaker when she was otherwise stuck for words. But she also worried that, in Huck’s eyes, she was still just Ximena’s daughter, the same fifteen-year-old girl she’d been when they’d met. Now she was twenty, a woman, old enough finally to act upon the crush she’d had on him for five years and counting.

Now what am I going to say? Tatiana wondered. “Did I mention that I’m taking Sociology 101 this quarter?” she asked him.

“Yes, you did.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought. Of course she’d already told him—more than once, in fact. But every time she mentioned it, he gave the wrong answer. She really hoped to provoke some positive, mildly-suggestive comment, like, “I’m glad to see you’re taking an interest in my field of expertise” or “If you have any questions, I’d be happy to tutor you” or “Let’s get sociable.”

Barb Knoop, the new lady with the bad teeth, brought the bag containing Huck’s purchase to Tatiana. She looked at Tatiana, then at Huck, and went, “Pfffft.”

“Here it is,” Tatiana said. “Large coffee and one powdered-sugar donut.”

“That’s all?” Huck asked. He didn’t order for himself. Instead, he paid for the next person in line. His experiment worked best when the forward payment was more substantial. When he looked up at Tatiana, Huck’s hair fell over his brown eyes, and she had to put her hands in her pockets to resist the urge to toss it between her fingers. Huck was part Korean and part Germanic, but 100% corn-fed Ohio farm boy. The combination was so freakin’ exotic it drove Tatiana nuts.

“It’s almost Valentine’s Day,” Tatiana reminded him. “So, why not also buy them a heart-shaped donut with pink icing and sprinkles? I’ll tell them you paid for it and wished them a happy Valentine’s Day.”

“It is? Oh. Well. That’s a good idea,” Huck said.

Proud of herself, Tatiana did a little dance in the pickup window.

“When they get to the widow, be sure to tell them that it’s a pay it forward. Don’t tell them that you know me or that it’s part of an experiment. As far as they know, it’s just a random act of kindness.”

“Of course,” Tatiana affirmed. She liked the idea that she contributed to Professor Hyun-ki “Huck” Carp’s research. Maybe he’d mention her in the acknowledgments in his dissertation: “Special thanks to Tatiana Gonsalves, who helped me in so many ways.”

“Good,” Huck said. “I’ll go park and see you in the store in a few minutes.”

“I will do my best,” Tatiana promised him. Just give me a chance.

Huck’s dissertation in progress contained over three hundred quantitative data points, including fifty-eight for gender alone (including eleven cis options, twenty-five trans choices, and, if nothing else fit, other, none, or prefer not to answer), and potentially hundreds of qualitative variables and indicators that would reveal themselves upon later content analysis of study participants’ responses. His cross-sequential research methodologies included surveys, case studies, correlations, neutral observation, participant observation, secondary analysis, watching kitschy YouTube videos, and reading every issue of O, The Oprah Magazine. His operational hypothesis was that pay-it-forward streaks at drive-thru windows constituted a novel socio-cognitive category of generalized exchange reciprocity wherein an emergent form of behavioral contagion engenders the spontaneous creation of a heterogeneous network of individuals irrespective of classical cost/benefits computations. Thus, these unplanned, purely voluntary phenomena manifested an egalitarian conception of the social commons based entirely upon an unconstrained desire of individuals to contribute to the public good. In honor of the Drip ‘n’ Donuts shop where he conducted his research, he referred to his theory as donut altruism.

He liked that idea so much it had to be true. Essentially, it provided a working model for organizing a long overdue people’s economic revolution. All he had to do was prove it.

Huck didn’t mention that bit about a “people’s revolution” when he pitched his project for approval of the institutional research board at The Ohio State University. He was worried that the economist and the business professor on the board might veto the whole thing if it hinted of socialism. Still, in his heart Huck hoped his research would provide an outline of how to do a revolution the right way—that is, without guns, money, violence, or religion.

On randomly selected days throughout the sampling period, Huck seeded a pay-it-forward event at the drive-thru of the Drip ‘n’ Donuts shop on Cleveland Avenue on the north side of Columbus, Ohio. He chose that venue because he’d worked there as an undergraduate and knew some of the staff. Furthermore, during his employment there, he participated in an epic, twelve-hour-long pay-it-forward drive-thru streak that nearly broke the record for the longest ever in North America. It was a glorious thing. He ardently hoped to trigger another such episode, which would yield a bounty of new empirical data. And maybe break the world record. It just happened that one of his sampling dates landed so close to Valentine’s Day. That seemed like an auspicious sign. Valentine’s Day might inspire folks to open their hearts.

Commandeering a corner booth inside the shop, Huck commenced watching, listening, taking notes, and entering data to load into SPSS. By consent of the store’s manager, Huck hooked up a workstation on a cart that he could wheel out on days when he conducted on-the-premises research. His setup included a laptop, two monitors, a printer, a microphone to capture words exchanged by staff and customers, and a live link to the digital camera above the drive-thru window. When business was slow, Tatiana would sometimes wave or blow kisses to the camera—she was cute, kind of silly, although Huck discouraged her frivolity. Neither cuteness nor silliness had any place in serious research.

Chavonne stepped out of the manager’s office for her first morning walkthrough. She’d started at Drip ‘n’ Donuts when she graduated from high school and, after working seven long years on the frontline, she finally got promoted. She vowed to her co-workers that, unlike the previous boss, she would be open and accessible to them at all times. Accordingly, she practiced management by wandering around. Huck had suggested it to her.

Chavonne altered her gait during the walkthrough, taking half steps instead of her usual long, leggy strides. It looked clumsy, but Huck suspected she did it consciously to slow down her normally rapid pace. That morning the kitchen was busier than usual, and Barb answering the intercom and Tatiana at the pickup window hustled to keep up. Chavonne looked over their shoulders and said two words she never once heard when she worked the frontline, “good job.”

Upon completion of her rounds, she poured a cup of coffee and sat down next to Huck. “What up, Professor Huck?” She pushed the coffee to him. “Got any good stuff for yo’ research today?”

Huck pulled out his ear buds. “We’re off to a good start.”

“I hope yo’ get lots of good information today. People love them heart-shaped donuts. It’s kind of cheap for a Valentine’s Day present, though, if yo’ ask me. Guys ought to do better by their ladies than just some cheap-ass donuts.”

Huck recognized sarcasm when he heard it. “Did Eldridge get you something nice for Valentine’s Day?”

“I damn sure hope so,” Chavonne replied. “For his own sake.”

“I’m sure he will,” Huck said, even though he doubted that Eldridge was even aware it was Valentine’s Day. Chavonne had a poor track record with boyfriends. He would send him a quick text to remind him, just in case. Chavonne deserved it, and it was in Huck’s interest to keep her happy.

“Blegh. With men, it’s best not to assume nothin’.”

Huck thought, That’s true. Since he personally had no romantic interest or immediate prospects for acquiring one, Valentine’s Day was inconsequential to him. He put his love life and all related confusion and anxieties on hold pending the conclusion of his research. Having no sex to distract him was kind of a blessing.

“Hot damn.” Barb was looking on the drive-thru monitor. “Lookee what’s a-coming. It’s Mr. Talking Truth.”

Huck opened the video feed on his monitor and maximized the window for a better look.

“Shit!” he cursed. “It’s the goddamned Erb-Mobile.”

Adam Erb’s one-of-a-kind limo was a remodeled GMC pickup truck, thirty-five-feet long, metallic blue, with eight doors, three axles, an 8.0-liter V10 engine, a bulldog hood ornament, and a blaster horn that played “Hang On Sloopy.” Its owner was a lot of things to a lot of people, but to Huck he was one thing above all others—a streak breaker. Erb had an insatiable appetite for donuts and, although he could’ve bought the whole Drip ‘n’ Donuts chain with his walking around money, he never had and never would pay forward a dime.

Huck pulled his hair. “Erb is the one variable that skews all of my data. He’s destroying my research.”

Chavonne patted Huck’s hand. “Maybe he’s in a mood to share the love, it bein’ nearly Valentine’s Day and all.”

“Oh yeah, he shares the love alright—with himself.” Huck bit his lip as he watched the Erb-mobile pull up to the kiosk. The driver rolled down his window and smiled so broadly that his earlobes wiggled when he did. Huck screwed in his earbuds to listen as he placed the order.

“Welcome to Drip ‘n’ Donuts. How can I make your morning great?” Barb greeted him.

“Yo, yo, yo. G-morning to yah,” he called into the intercom speaker.

The driver—his name was, what? Jerald, Jerome, no Jay-Rome—was always cheerful with the drive-thru staff. Huck wondered how such an amiable person could stand working for a shithead like Adam Erb.

“I got here a note from Mr. Erb, says for me to order a dozen of them valentine sprinkle donuts. And to make it a baker’s dozen, add a devil’s food donut. That last one’s for me.”

“That’s twelve Vs and a devil makes thirteen,” Barb confirmed. “Pull up to the next window. And if you’re listening, Mr. Erb, have yourself an extra special Valentine’s Day.”

Even though Huck told himself it was futile to hope, he watched as the Erb-mobile approached the pickup window. Tatiana glanced back at Huck and whispered, “I’m sorry,” to which he just shrugged.

Jay-Rome stopped in front of the pickup window. Tatiana had the box of donuts waiting for him, and also a large coffee. Huck magnified the image on his computer monitor.

“I didn’t order no coffee. My order comes to, what—$9.95? Here’s a ten-dollar bill.” Jay-Rome handed it to her.

Tatiana did not take the cash. Instead, she folded her arms and said, “The last customer ahead of you already paid forward for two donuts and that coffee, too. Maybe you would like to pay something forward, too? It’d be a nice thing to do because of Valentine’s Day.”

Huck appreciated that she tried; he flashed her a thumbs up.

“I don’t think—”

“Can’t you just ask your boss?” Tatiana curled her lower lip and made a pouty face.

Jay-Rome looked at her and shook his head. “Why don’t you ask him when you hand him the donuts?”

Jay-Rome pulled forward so the farthest window at the back of the limo lined up with the pickup window. He pushed the button to lower it. Adam Erb’s head, which had been leaning against the window, rotated facing up, half in and half out of the vehicle. Tatiana threw her arms over her head, knocking over the box of donuts, and screamed the kind of deranged earsplitting scream that Huck had only heard from babysitters in slasher movies.

Barb came running. When she saw inside the limo, she shrieked and vomited, hurling chunks across the span and onto Adam’s Erb’s bare, hairy chest.

Chavonne hurried to the window, took one look, gasped, then led them away.

Huck dashed to the scene and pushed past the women. He bent forward, with his whole upper body outside of the pickup window. He took a quick mental snapshot.

Adam Erb’s stripped body was as flat and rigid as an ironing board. His skin was purplish and stretched so tight it looked like it might tear between his ribs.

The word Lust was written in black marker across his chest.

He wore a hard plastic helmet, a Lone Ranger face mask, and a bow tie twisted around his neck.

He was handcuffed behind the back. His fists were jammed with Monopoly money.

He wore calf-high cowboy boots, left on right and right on left.

He wore a leather belt with a chain-mesh trap covering his genitals and secured by a keyed padlock. The mesh strained to hold back a monolithic erection.

His mouth was clamped open with a dental gag retractor. Assorted candies stuffed his cheeks. One half-eaten piece fell out of his mouth. Huck noticed a little purple pill mixed in with the nougat.

Strewn all around his body were heart-shaped sugar candies, with printed messages on them like Nasty, Spoiled Rotten, Spank Me, I’ve Been a Bad Boy, I Like It Rough, and other mildly masochistic suggestions.

Lying next to him was a frighteningly realistic elastomer sex doll, with full red lips, D-cup breasts with hard rubber nipples, a shaved pudendum with gaping labia, and one hand suctioned onto Adam Erb’s ass.

On the floor was a stogie cigar, a 5×7 plastic American flag, a skull and crossbones bandana, an assault style squirt gun, a long-stemmed yellow rose, a pestle, several crushed cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and a cell phone. Looking closer, Huck noticed a matchbook from the Booti Tooti Club wedged in the crack between seats.

Jay-Rome got out of the car and stopped cold in his tracks. “I, uh, oh shit, uh, fuck, I’m uh, ick,” he stammered. “Goddamn.”

“Call 911!” Chavonne cried.

“Tell them there’s no hurry,” Huck said, reaching forward to close Adam’s eyelids. “He is so dead.”

—-End of Special Sneak Preview—-

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