Read Online Kiss The Girls and Make Them Die by Charles Runyon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charles Runyon
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mouth. Dan pulled back the hammer and sighted down the octagon barrel. He brought the front sight up into the notch, centered it in the middle of the curly forehead. The dog got up and ran forward, licked his hand. Danny slapped his head and said,
“Down, down!”
The dog cocked his head, lay down with his long jaw resting on his paws, looking at Dan with a quizzical expression. “You dirty bastard,” he said, trying to work up his rage. “You chicken-killer.” he growled, remembering how Helen had caught a young rooster that morning—threw the bright yellow grains on the ground, grabbed the rooster by his feet and swung him around, once, lay him flat on the ground and stepped on his head—then flung the headless corpse, watched it bounce, flop, spraying blood all over the woodpile. Danny had looked at the head and watched the eyes, blink … blink.
The walnut stock lay sweat-greasy against his cheek, the sights wavered as the gun barrel swung to-and-fro. He felt Debra’s presence and turned, saw her standing at the corner of the building, one grimy foot pressed down on the other. “You want me to do it?”
“He’s my dog.”
She said nothing, waiting. Ten years old.
“Don’t watch.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
“Why not?”
“Just go away, willya?”
“Make me.”
He swung the gun. She lifted her chin, thrust out her round chest, nubbin-breasts pushing out the floweredprintfabric made from a hog-pellet sack. “Go ahead. I don’t care.”
“I will.”
“Do it. Shoot me. You’re afraid.”
He let the barrel drop, pointing at the ground.
“Go up and see what he’s doing.”
“Go up and see for yourself.”
“You could talk him out of it.”
“He’s your dog.”
The crack of the rifle was loud,
loud
. Something tore apart inside him.
Killing is wrong, killing is evil.
The general who pinned the medal on him had shaking hands, small eyes sunk in pockets of fat. Danny smelled the sourness of old booze under the breath sweetener, saw the liver spots on the general’s hands, thought of his father.
He listened carefully to the citation, the naming of names:
“While serving at a waterpoint in the region of Pleiku … unit attacked by mortar fire … at great risk to himself despite serious wound, went forward under fire to save his commanding officer and then refused evacuation …”
“You’re a credit to the army, Derringer.”
“Thank you sir, the name is Bollinger.”
The general frowned down at the mimeographed sheet. Dan stepped back, saluted, about-faced, and marched back into formation, wondering why he couldn’t remember any of his heroic deeds. Maybe Derringer did it. He sent the medal to Debra, and she put it in her box of keepsakes, along with Mama’s ring.
Darkside,
Sunnyside …
I am the lady of the dark tower.
Die, witch!
Debra died beautifully, her eyes closed, fine-featured face smooth in rapture. She held her slim body rigid, tipped, tumbled off the crossbrace, fell turning through the slanted beams of dustmotes dancing in the sun, dress whipping up around her hips, into the pile of mouldy hay. He looked at the dark hair curling around the edge of her panties and felt his heart thump in the base of his throat. Her eyes were open, deep sunk and placid, studying him. She didn’t bother to move …
The twelfth summer of our lives …
Dan walked to the window of the staff room, tapped on the glass, and spoke through the slot at the bottom. “Dr. Bodac left the tape recorded for me …”
“Mama could never accept the fact that we were of different sex. She knew it, yes. But her mind was always slipping a cog, like when she’d call us Tweedledum and Tweedledee, usually when we were fighting over something. You know the thing, it goes:
Tweedledum and Tweedledee
Resolved to have a battle,
For Tweedledum said Tweedledee
Had spoiled his nice new rattle.
“Then we’d have to know which of us was Tweedledee and which was
“Down, down!”
The dog cocked his head, lay down with his long jaw resting on his paws, looking at Dan with a quizzical expression. “You dirty bastard,” he said, trying to work up his rage. “You chicken-killer.” he growled, remembering how Helen had caught a young rooster that morning—threw the bright yellow grains on the ground, grabbed the rooster by his feet and swung him around, once, lay him flat on the ground and stepped on his head—then flung the headless corpse, watched it bounce, flop, spraying blood all over the woodpile. Danny had looked at the head and watched the eyes, blink … blink.
The walnut stock lay sweat-greasy against his cheek, the sights wavered as the gun barrel swung to-and-fro. He felt Debra’s presence and turned, saw her standing at the corner of the building, one grimy foot pressed down on the other. “You want me to do it?”
“He’s my dog.”
She said nothing, waiting. Ten years old.
“Don’t watch.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
“Why not?”
“Just go away, willya?”
“Make me.”
He swung the gun. She lifted her chin, thrust out her round chest, nubbin-breasts pushing out the floweredprintfabric made from a hog-pellet sack. “Go ahead. I don’t care.”
“I will.”
“Do it. Shoot me. You’re afraid.”
He let the barrel drop, pointing at the ground.
“Go up and see what he’s doing.”
“Go up and see for yourself.”
“You could talk him out of it.”
“He’s your dog.”
The crack of the rifle was loud,
loud
. Something tore apart inside him.
Killing is wrong, killing is evil.
The general who pinned the medal on him had shaking hands, small eyes sunk in pockets of fat. Danny smelled the sourness of old booze under the breath sweetener, saw the liver spots on the general’s hands, thought of his father.
He listened carefully to the citation, the naming of names:
“While serving at a waterpoint in the region of Pleiku … unit attacked by mortar fire … at great risk to himself despite serious wound, went forward under fire to save his commanding officer and then refused evacuation …”
“You’re a credit to the army, Derringer.”
“Thank you sir, the name is Bollinger.”
The general frowned down at the mimeographed sheet. Dan stepped back, saluted, about-faced, and marched back into formation, wondering why he couldn’t remember any of his heroic deeds. Maybe Derringer did it. He sent the medal to Debra, and she put it in her box of keepsakes, along with Mama’s ring.
Darkside,
Sunnyside …
I am the lady of the dark tower.
Die, witch!
Debra died beautifully, her eyes closed, fine-featured face smooth in rapture. She held her slim body rigid, tipped, tumbled off the crossbrace, fell turning through the slanted beams of dustmotes dancing in the sun, dress whipping up around her hips, into the pile of mouldy hay. He looked at the dark hair curling around the edge of her panties and felt his heart thump in the base of his throat. Her eyes were open, deep sunk and placid, studying him. She didn’t bother to move …
The twelfth summer of our lives …
Dan walked to the window of the staff room, tapped on the glass, and spoke through the slot at the bottom. “Dr. Bodac left the tape recorded for me …”
“Mama could never accept the fact that we were of different sex. She knew it, yes. But her mind was always slipping a cog, like when she’d call us Tweedledum and Tweedledee, usually when we were fighting over something. You know the thing, it goes:
Tweedledum and Tweedledee
Resolved to have a battle,
For Tweedledum said Tweedledee
Had spoiled his nice new rattle.
“Then we’d have to know which of us was Tweedledee and which was
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