The House Page 7

  But that was then, and this was...well, this was a 1977 Mafia safehouse in rural New York into which broken down heroin addicts were forced to have sex with animals. All the local radio waves provided were evangelical stations and dim talk shows. However, on luck's infrequent visitations, Leonard could snatch WGTB from Georgetown University, and John Page's "Abstraction Show," or WAMU's "Rock and Roll Jukebox" which never played rock and roll unless you consider Robert Wyatt, Perubu, and The Residents rock and roll. It was these wee-hour musical fugue states that got Leonard by, that allowed him to retain some infinitesimal sliver of his actual spirit.

  Sissy and Snowdrop moaned intermittently from their back room, dry-heaving and well into the closing vise of withdrawal. Leonard stared at the wall behind the big Sankyo editor and Bolex titler as lilting strains of Brian Eno's "Discreet Music" washed over him. Leonard, for no estimable reason, thought: Wasn't it Eno who said that if variety is the spice of life, then monotony is the sauce? But—ug—sauce. It reminded Leonard that they were down to their last three cans of Giant-brand spaghetti, and he'd had to cut it to half-rations to begin with. Rocco never brought enough heroin or food, and more often than not, Leonard preferred to starve than to break down and consume more dog food. Coppola didn't eat dog food, Cimino didn't (though he would after he released Heaven's Gate), so—

  Why should I?

  Eno ebbed out, nearly inaudibly, giving over to Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music. Then the commotion barged in, loud footfalls on the wood floors and—

  "Oink, oink, oink—"

  Did Lou Reed have pig noises on MMM? Leonard didn't think so. He got up and went to the living room.

  "Vinch needs a pig flick, kid," Rocco announced, and slapped a bag of heroin on the table. A pig flick. Leonard scarcely batted an eye, for by now he'd made several, and these were by far the most difficult from the managing standpoint—managing the animal, that is. Dogs, mules, horses—they were easy compared to the mammalian genus sus vittatus. They were feisty, sometimes downright vicious. At least Leonard had a modicum of an edge in that he'd helped raise pigs on his father's farm as a child.

  "Sure," Leonard tried to enthuse to his boss. "No problem."

  "And here's the star," Rocco announced. Scampering circles about the living room, and amid a cacophony of protesting chortles, was what looked to be about a 150-pound Chester, white with a few black splotches. Its hoofs ticked maddeningly on the wood floor as Knuckles let go of its leash. "Get in there, ya fuckin' pig!" he complained, and kicked the animal on its flank.

  Rocco obliviously rubbed his crotch. "Shit, my dick's hard," he announced. "I'm gonna fuck me one of them dirty bitches. Kid, go help Knuckles bring in the food."

  Thank the fates, Leonard thought through a sigh. Food. His gut ached as he followed the gargantuan Knuckles out to the Deville. "Nice night, huh, Mr. Knuckles?" Leonard offered a cordiality. Knuckles unlocked the trunk, let it bob open. "Shaddap," he said, and pointed to the grocery bag. Leonard's lips pursed. Only one bag, he considered. Usually they brought two: one for dog food, one for people food.

  Hmm.

  "Take the bag in the house, then get your ass back out here and clean the pig shit outa the backseat," Knuckles said.

  Leonard froze for part of a moment. It was not easy being here in the first place. Nor was it easy existing in a near-constant state of blood-ketosis only because these cheap-suited assholes were too incompetent to bring enough food. It was not easy making animal movies, nor was it easy keeping two clinical heroin addicts alive. And now—now—here was this cement-for-brains Mafioso thug ordering him to clean pig shit out of the car. Leonard's thoughts churned, and something inside his spirit snapped, and at the conclusion of that moment he came very close to replying: Fuck you, you dago moron whop motherfucker.

  But of course he didn't actually say it, he thought it. To actually say it would have been extremely inadvisable. This, after all, was the man who had removed Leonard's left testicle, and they didn't call him Knuckles for nothing. Nevertheless, as Leonard's better judgement revisited him, he wilted.

  I won't tell this guy off because I'm afraid. Because I don't have the courage. I'm a weakling, a coward...

  Knuckles slapped Leonard in the back of the head. "Ya hear me, kid?"

  Leonard gulped. "Yes. Yes, Mr. Knuckles. I'll take the bag in the house and then clean the...pig shit out of the back seat."

  "Good, boy. Good little wussy."

  Leonard reached down to pick up the grocery bag. Paused. Blinked and stared. He rummaged through it then and saw only a dozen cans of Giant-brand Big Chunk Beef dog food.

  Leonard turned with steel in his eyes. "This is just dog food. Where's the spaghetti for me and the girls?"

  "We forgot to pick some up."

  Leonard ground his teeth. "We've only got three cans left, and you guys won't be back up here for another week."

  Knuckles scraped something nonchalantly out of his nostril. "Like I give a shit? Now take the fuckin' bag in the fuckin' house and then get your fuckin' ass back out here and clean the fuckin' pig shit outa the fuckin' back seat."

  "Fuck you, you dago moron whop motherfucker," Leonard calmly replied. "Clean the pig shit out your fucking self."

  The succession of blows which followed this remark was lost to Leonard. All he knew was that Knuckles very expertly had Leonard wheezing on the ground a split second later. His head hurt. His stomach hurt. His chest hurt. He couldn't breathe.

  But he could wail when Knuckles grabbed him by a fistful of hair and dragged him back in the house.

  "Fuckin' art school college boy punk talkin' to me like that? We'll see what Rocco says. Hope he lets me take your other nut."

  Back in the house Leonard was—ka-clunk!—dropped on the living room floor like a bag of blocks. Rocco did not immediately notice this however, as he was in the process of briskly sodomizing Snowdrop. He sort of grunted with each thrust, and it almost seemed that the pig mimicked these grunts with a few of its own while it snuffled and skittered about the corners of the room. Snowdrop lay splayed on her belly, either unconscious or comatose.

  "Goddamn!" Rocco exclaimed as he exerted himself through the motions. "Here ya go bitch, here's some milk for yer fudge," and then, "Ahhhh!"

  The pelvic pumpings slowed, then abated. Snowdrop lay motionless, showing the brown eye. "Shit, bitch, your asshole's bigger than a fuckin' gopher hole. Bet you've had more cock goin' into your ass than shit comin' out." Rocco, after this kind compliment, hoisted up his slacks, and it was then that he noticed Knuckles standing there with a bloody-faced Leonard at his feet.

  "Knuckles, what'choo jack the kid out for?"

  "Shit, boss, he called me a—"

  "Help the kid up, you schmuck," Rocco ordered. "Vinch says the movies he shoots are the best animal flicks he's ever seen, and you wanna go busting him up?"

  "But, boss," Knuckles countered. "He called me a, a, a dago moron whop motherfucker."

  "Yeah? And ya know somethin', Knuckles. You are a dago moron whop motherfucker. What are you, stupid? Your mamma raise a dumbell? Anything happens to the kid, what'choo think Vinchetti'll say?"

  Knuckles mouth dropped open. "Uhhh—"

  Rocco cut a sharp frown. "Yeah, uhhh. He'll say drop that asshole Knuckles in the Hudson, that's what he'll say. Now help the kid up and don't never touch him again. Understand?"

  Knuckles was actually shaking when he nodded the affirmative and helped Leonard to his feet. "Thank you," Leonard croaked.

  "He's, uh, he's pissed we forgot the spaghetti," Knuckles said.

  Rocco tapped himself on the head. "Oh, shit, kid. I'm really sorry about that. We got so much shit goin' on sometimes we forget. Just try to rough it for the next week, huh? And I promise, we'll bring ya up some good grub next time, okay?"

  What else could Leonard say?

  "Okay," he said.

  "No problem. Hey, watch the pig, kid. And shoot us up a nice flick."

  Leonard grabbed the leash, holding th
e pig back as Rocco and Knuckles went out the kitchen door. Could've been worse, he reckoned. A lot worse. At least he could be proud of the praise: I make the best animal movies in the country.

  He looked out into the driveway and received even a smidgen more satisfaction. Rocco kicked Knuckles in the pants and shouted, "Clean the pig shit outa the backseat you asshole! I ain't ridin' all the way back to Trenton smellin' pig shit!"

  ««—»»

  Leonard sucked down one of the last three cans of spaghetti. He was probably down to 120 pounds now, a broomstick in dirty jeans and a Hawkwind T-shirt. Hawkwind's ham-fisted sci-fi chord-pounding in fact jazzed from the radio this very minute; "That's the spirit of the age," a deaf-in-one-ear Robert Calvert vocalled. Yeah, it sure is, Leonard thought. Living on spaghetti and dog food, making underground porno movies for the Mafia. The pig chortled, chewed at his pantleg.

  "Hope you're horny, little buddy," Leonard said to the pig.

  Snowdrop still lay unconscious on her belly in the living room, flattened by the rectal going-over Rocco had treated her to. Her anus looked like an empty eye socket.

  "Snowdrop! Get up!" Leonard commanded in a loud voice. "Sissy! Come on out here!"

  Neither girl responded.

  "I've got heroin!"

  That roused them. Snowdrop rolled over at once, sat up and looked at Leonard, her dead eyes alighted. Sissy straggled out wearing only stained panties. Her strands of pasty hair resembled enslimed tentacles of some Lovecraftian thing.

  "Gimme, gimme," she groaned.

  "Please please please," Snowdrop groaned.

  "Not yet." Leonard sat down on the crusty couch. "We have to talk—"

  "I don't wanna to talk, I wanna fire up!" Snowdrop yelled.

  Leonard almost slapped her in the face but elected not to at the last second. He was not a violent person, and this predicament certainly wasn't her fault. "In a minute," he said. How the girls were not dead already mystified him. God works in strange ways, he thought. But, no, it wasn't God, it had to be the Devil. God would not protract the misery of heroin addicts solely for the purpose of making animal movies for the mob. "We're in dire straits," he (Leonard, not God) began. "Rocco's not coming back for a week and we only have two cans of spaghetti left. We're all seriously malnourished; if we don't eat, we'll die. And that means we're going to have to eat dog food."

  "I don't wanna eat, I wanna fire up!" Snowdrop yelled.

  "Gimme, gimme," Sissy pleaded. Standing like a parched zombie, her dirty hands reaching out, she urinated in her panties without realizing it.

  "Rocco and Knuckles brought up a pig, they want a pig movie. You girls know how hard pig movies are." He could hear the pig scuffling around in the kitchen, oinking. "We're going to have to work very hard to make this pig movie good."

  "I don't wanna fuck pigs, I wanna fire up!" Snowdrop yelled.

  "Gimme!" Sissy yelled.

  Leonard sighed. "And as usual, Rocco didn't bring enough heroin. I'll only be able to give each of you one bag a day."

  "Fuck!" Snowdrop yelled. "We'll die!"

  "Gimme, gimme," Sissy pleaded.

  Leonard gave them each one bag of heroin. "Here's your heroin. Tomorrow we start the movie." They scurried off to their room like starving chipmunks who'd just happened upon a few acorns.

  From the cutting room, John Wetton sang "Starless and...bible-black," from E.G. Record's 1974 King Crimson album entitled Red.

  ««—»»

  Animal management, yes. That's what it was all about.

  Dogs were a cinch; they realized what was going on, and what they were supposed to do. Horses and mules? They pretty much just stood there and let the girls down their thing. Easy. But pigs?

  "Owwww!" Snowdrop yelped. "The fucker bit me! It bit me on the back!"

  Three days now they'd been at it. Leonard made the girls eat in the morning, then they'd shoot all day and into the night, and then he'd give them their "ten bag." First day? Could've been worse. They split the last two cans of spaghetti three ways. It wasn't bad. But after that, the daily menu changed cuisines. Beef & Cheese Flavor, Hearty Chicken Dinner, Big Chunk Beef, Beef & Liver. Snowdrop preferred Big Chunk Beef, by the way. Sissy was partial to Beef & Cheese.

  By Day Four, Leonard was contemplating suicide. Abduction, slavery, animal movies, and dog food did not afford most men any sense of purpose or actualization. For all this time, he'd been living for the Sundance Film Festival announcements, but of course how would they even contact him if he won? And was Rocco really going to let him go after his "obligation" was met? Leonard kinda doubted it. So why go on?

  Hope, perhaps? Or maybe providence?

  "He's kind of cute, though," Sissy observed, kneeling naked next to the irate pig. "He's like Arnold on Green Acres."

  "That's great," Leonard complained from behind the lowered Canon. "So try to make cute little Arnold have sex with you."

  "Well, Snowdrop could help," Sissy griped.

  "Fuck you! The fucker bit me!" came Snowdrop's retort, rubbing her wound.

  "You have to be...dainty with him," Leonard suggested. "Pigs are ornery, irritable. You don't just spread your legs and pull him on. You've got to use finesse."

  Leonard's Guide To Animal Movies.

  "I'm stringing," Snowdrop said. Leonard's instructions went in one ear and out the other. "I need to take another bang."

  "No," Leonard put his verbal foot down. "You already had yours for the day, both of you."

  "Yeah, Leonard," Sissy piped in. "We can't do this when we're this strung."

  "No! Now what you have to do is—"

  "Come on, Leonard. We'll blow you," Snowdrop offered.

  "Yeah, real good," Sissy seconded the motion. "And you can fuck us too."

  "No!" God, women! They tried this stunt every night, not realizing that Leonard would sooner put his penis into a dumpster drain. By now emaciation reduced their breasts to meager dirty bags of skin; their hips and joints stuck out like death-camp girls, and their eyes... Well, their eyes always looked dead.

  Part of Leonard, at times, hated these malodorous twig-women but generally he felt sorry for them. How could he not? None of this was their fault. But it's not mine either, he reminded himself.

  "All right, here's what I'll do," he negotiated. "We've already got the two blowjobs and the two fucks, so all that's left is the shooter for the final scene..."

  "Fuck that," Snowdrop insisted. "Sissy can do the shooter."

  "Fuck you," Sissy spat back, "I always do the shooters—"

  "Do not!"

  "Do too! And I have to do most of everything anyway 'cos you're always passed out!"

  "Do not!"

  "Do too!"

  "Shut up!" Leonard shouted.

  The room fell silent, save for the pig's spare shimmies.

  "Here's what I'll do. Give me the shooter, right now, and I'll give you one bag to split between you."

  "Okay!"

  "Okay!"

  "Dainty!

  "Finesse!"

  That got them roused. There'd be hell to pay on Thursday when they were one bag short but Leonard would worry about that later. It was amazing what a prize at the end of the rainbow could compel people to do. Regardless of the pig's remonstrations, Snowdrop and Sissy worked together as a team. They got nipped a few times, and hooved, but after only another hour or two under the hot Dedolight LHB-4s, they managed to provide enough rough footage for a scene-lead and then...

  The "shooter."

  This was tricky, this was very tricky. Getting a pig to ejaculate externally was tough enough but this? A shooter scene?

  The boned-up pig stood chortling in the middle of the room, uncomprehending and pissed off by what it had been subjected to these past few days. It clearly did not want to have sexual contact with human beings, so perhaps pigs came from a higher moral echelon than homo sapiens. (Well, it was something to consider anyway. The pig seemed to know that this was not right. But humans? Forget it!)

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