HAYWARD SEASON TWO PREMIERE – The Conclusion of ‘Crawlers!

HAYWARD

SEASON TWO PREMIERE:

The Conclusion of ‘Crawlers!

Splish Splash, I Was Taking a Bath

or

What’s the Best Tuna? Mud Duck of the Sea?

Murray was nearly done stocking the beer shelves. It wasn’t one of his favorite jobs at the Safe Haven, but, aside from the coffee and doughnuts, cigarettes and chewing tobacco, it was their biggest seller. They sold so much beer at Safe Haven that sometimes, just sometimes, Murray suspected people came to get gas just so they had an excuse to buy some more beer.

It didn’t matter much to Murray. He wasn’t much of a drinker anymore, not for any particular reason. Alcohol made him tired, it made him a little sour, and it made him put weight on his face and belly almost instantly. He knew he didn’t need any help in that area. No, he’d settled happily on tea and, aside from the rare Christmas cocktail or some champagne to toast the latest bride, he preferred to leave it alone.

He had so much fun pranking out of towners (this chiefly meant Minnesotans–Wisconsinites of the northern variety didn’t really pay mind to Iowans and they considered citizens of the Upper Peninsula (Yoopers) more cousins and distant relatives than outsiders. But Minnesotans. Boy, Murray sure loved teasing them.

A gentleman came walking towards Murray just as he was finishing loading the last row of twelve packs. Murray looked at his watch, it was just past three in the morning. The gentleman looked at Murray with sincere hope, wanting to buy some beer.

Murray smiled pleasantly and said, “Hello friend, how can we at Safe Haven be of service to you this morning?”

The man, a little bedraggled and mostly likely from the nearby apartments from the smell of him, humbly asked, “Is beer for sale at this time of day?” His eyes were like little benedictions, little pilgrimages of alcoholic novenas, would Christ bless him with blessed wine…or even cheap beer?

Again, Murray smiled, a true saint of the earth, he understood that the man, who was a frequent customer, had soaked his brain a bit too much that day and so, couldn’t even remember that at Safe Haven, of course, liquor was available twenty four hours a day, three hundred and sixty five days of the year. They even did something special for Leap Year! “Want a twelve pack of Smits?” he asked the poor supplicant. The man nodded. Smits was a fine beer for when you had more thirst than money. The man tried opening the twelve pack right then and there but Murray put a soft hand on his and nodded towards the checkout counter. “Let’s pay for it first pal,” he said gently.

The two of them walked over to the counter and Murray found that this was another customer who found it helpful for him to count his money out for him and so Murray obliged. Sainthood could take many forms. He took a beer out for the man and put it in a paper brown bag. “Here’s the deal buddy,” said Murray. “I’ve got about half an hour before things get really crazy around here. I could use some fresh air, you can’t drink that in here, but, if you don’t mind the company, I’ll sit outside with you for a bit, just ’til your steady, and then I can watch you make it home from here. Deal?”

The man, whose face was buried in the bag, desperately trying to suck beer right through the aluminum, grunted. And Murray took that for an agreement.

The sat on the brightly painted Orgina benches which were one of the landmarks of any Safe Haven. The drunk lay with his back touching both the seat of the bench, and the back of it–no mean feat, sober or not. Murray climbed above him and sat on top of the back, resting his head against the window. “Since we’ve got some time, and since you’ve got some beer, how about I tell you a little story?”

The drunk grunted, the paper bag muting his verbosity.

“Ever hear the one about the Minnesotans who went fishing without any beer, without bait, and without any luck?

The drunk grunted laughed. Snot hit the paper bag. “We’ve all heard that one buddy!”

“Oh,” said Murray, “I’m sorry, I misspoke. I meant to say, did you ever hear the one about the Minnesotans who were so desperate for beer that they became the bait and actually, they say, caught some really fantastic muskies?”

The bum shook his head. Yes, he’d heard that story too. He sighed. Taking another Smit beer out of the twelve pack and not bothering to put it in the paper bag, he cracked it open. “I suppose it’s always worth hearing again.”

The moon shone down on them, Murray’s head reflecting constellations he could name by heart. It was a cooler night and there weren’t many mosquitoes. The Safe Haven’s music system was playing something by Blue Oyster Cult and as the guitar rift began, Murray paused and then said, “Once upon a time, there were some very rude Minnesotan fishermen who wanted some beer…and well, who was I to sell it to them?” The drunk slurped his Smit beer and Murray’s eyes rolled far back into his mind, bringing forth all the details, some factual, some less so, and as the cowbell resounded through the song, he cast out the last, best bits about the fishing tale of Spealburg’s ‘Crawlers.

You and Me Going Fishin’ in the Dark

 

“I can tell you one thing that is for certain Bruce White,” said his sister, Lorraine White (who for reasons oft speculated about but never photographically confirmed, chose never to marry, and still lived in the same house/bait shop/convenience store with her brother, the very same one that they’d both been born in.).

“And what would that one thing be sis?” asked Bruce.

“These are the most awful smelling mud ducks I have ever come across. And, you know big brother, we’ve run across some pretty bad mud ducks in our day,” said his sister.

“Run over quite a few too I reckon!” Bruce White laughed. This was the limit of his verbal wit and he knew it. But, Bruce and Lorraine White had some different kinds of wits, some of them half, some of them cracked, but they had plenty of them. Oh, they knew the stuck up Minnesotans from their fancy suburbs like Har Mar, Rosedale, and Sunray thought hicks like the Whites were idiots for living so far out in the sticks. But, they owned their own store, owned their own house, had cars and trucks which mostly worked, and they had a reputation for providing some of the most selective, highly sought after sport fishing anywhere. If you could find out about them.

Chief Brody had been given their location, but alas, Murray had neglected to mention what the Whites’ real passion was–muskie fishing, muskies so big…so monstrous, that the only goal was to get one on your line, because no one in their right mind wanted to see what an entire one of those beasts looked like in their boat.

“They’re all the offspring of the Witch you know,” everybody said. But they said it quietly, in case they were correct.

Brody, feeling self conscious about his smell and about the gun pointed at his rectum, cleared his throat and tried to summon his best, most polite, policeman voice. “Ma’am, please pardon me, and my friends here, for the condition we’re in. We got off to a late start–I had to stay late at the station, you know how that goes I’m sure (he was being a little desperate here, they could tell), and then, I’ll state clearly and for the record that I allowed my friends, under the law of Eminent Sheriff Domain, to have a drink or two while I drove. Unfortunately, we saw a cat on the road and I swerved and then, dont’cha know, beer went a-this way, and then da chew went thataway, our truck, we call her The Viking, she hit a log, and then der went that liquor…So ma’am (and then he slowly nodded to Bruce White and his gun which was still protruding Brody’s soiled jeans) and you sir, I owe you an apology, I guess maybe we owe this entire Hayward area an apology of sorts, coming in and acting like we own the place. I’ll just make use of my emergency powers as a policeman of the state of Minnesota to declare an immediate need for assistance from you and whatever local authorities you are able to locate at this–BAM!” Chief Brody heard the gun fire, he saw the bullet exit the front of his lower waist, he felt himself falling into the loving arms of Lorraine White, who, being an expert fishing guide, had already anticipated her brother’s move. As Chief Brody’s paralyzed, but still very functional body slid into Lorraine’s surprisingly stout arms (those wrists–like a young Hank Aaron!), he heard Bruce White say slowly, clearly, in an accent he certainly must have heard in a movie, “This…ain’t Minn-uh-SOHHHHHHH-tah!” And then, looking at Chief Brody’s terrified friends, the brothers Hooper and Bobby Shaw, Bruce grinned, and cracked them both across their foreheads with the butt of his gun. The moon shone down on them in a near perfect circle, branches from the shadowing trees loomed like the wings of dragons or giant bats, hovering over the fresh kill. But, no, there was no killing to be done. Everyone in the Greater Hayward Recreational Center knew that the secret to the White’s long term success for finding the largest muskies, was that they always, always insisted on using the freshest of bait, the freshest of ‘crawlers.

“God I love fishing,” said Lorraine.

“Don’t curse,” said her brother.

“Yes daddy,” she said, sincerely.

“We gonna owe Murray big for this one, I think,” said Bruce.

“I don’t think so daddy,” said Lorraine. “He said, ‘tell your brother that this will all work out in the end, but that the truck…well, we might need an Axe to help us with that.'”

“Goddamn. An Axe?” said Bruce.

“Don’t curse babyboy,” said Lorraine.

“Sorry Momma.” Bruce White slumped his head down against his bullchest and pouted. “Does this mean no pie for me tonight mommy?”

Lorraine looked down at the three bodies, all of which were starting to twitch a little. “Sweetest brother,” she smiled, the moon’s circle now finding and highlighting nicely, her bullchest, “I’ll make you a deal. You get these fellas cleaned up and ready to go, and I promise to make time to get you some pie.” Bruce looked at the moonlight piercing his sister’s nightie. How he wished he were the moonlight! But first, there was work that had got to be done.

He walked over to his lovely sister, he put an arm around her waist and lowered his face to her slim tummy, barely covered by the silky material. He pressed his mouth against her lower abdomen, and inhaled through his nose, her scent more than ripe enough for her to take it in even from there. She grabbed her brother’s hair and wrapped some in and around each of her fingers, and snapped his head back.

“Fresh bait, brother, fresh. Now get to work. And call the Axe.”

Chief Brody, who was fairly certain, with all he had just seen and heard, that he was in an advanced state of shock, offered, “What do you mean fresh? We’re not even dead yet?”

Lorraine and her brother, upon hearing this, laughed and laughed and laughed, their heads tossed back as if electrical storms might supply the background effects of their madness. Then just so, they stopped, paused, and kissed like drunk porn stars on crack. Turning to the horrified chief, they said in unison, “Who ever said you were going to die?”

 

…

 

 

Hooper was reading fishing guides. They seemed to be quite old. For several reasons he wasn’t quite sure. He was hanging upside in the back area of the bait shop, where the Whites had both collected some memorabilia and stocked some shelves with supplies and curiosities. And, the Whites seemed to have done something with one of his eyes. It was hard to tell since he could neither open it nor reach for it, his arms being bound snugly behind his back. Something didn’t feel right about his arms and hands either, but really, it seemed like mincing words at this point.

Hooper saw that a cooler had cold Orgina soda in it and Hooper thought he could really go for one of those right about now! He started trying to read the books again, but this caused him to get dizzier than he already was, what with the careful blood letting the Whites had been performing on him for several days now, was rather severe. But, he had to hand it to them, they knew their stuff.

When Hooper first saw Bruce White shove that two foot hook through his brother Bobby Shaw’s upper collarbone area, he thought, “Well, there goes another brother…” But what was he gonna do about it? He’d been tied up eight different ways and was pretty sure his feet had both been broken. But, Lorraine and Bruce really were an outstanding set of siblings and just about as quick as that barb came through screaming Bobby’s collarbone area, she slapped the protrusion with a flat piece of glowing metal, singeing it shut. This was when Bobby had started his little swearing fest, which had earned him a second barbed hook through the other side of his collarbone. When Lorraine had slapped the metal on that wound, Bobby’s swearing had stopped, along with his consciousness.

Bruce heckled a wheeze of a laugh. “Mud duck wuss.”

It was right then and there that Hooper had decided that he was going to keep his goddamn mouth shut.

 

…

 

“This didn’t really happen man,” said the drunk to Murray. “I’ve heard this story. It’s about as real as the Witch of Siren Lake!”

“Well…” Murray paused. “I have it on good authority that that’s a pretty good one too. Do you want to hear the rest or not pal?”

The drunk regarded Murray, wiggled his beer, and nodded.

“Just remember friend, in Wisconsin, the beer may be a little lighter but the moon, well, the moon may be just a little darker.”

 

…

 

Hooper was still dangling upside down when he saw the strange man dressed all in black arrive. The man grunted a greeting to Lorraine, tipped his fedora, and she looked him up and down in a way one wasn’t supposed to regard an Axe. Being an Axe, he ignored her completely (causing her to sigh a little bit), and he walked straight away to the hideous yellow truck. He sized it up for a brief moment, nodded to the Whites and said, “One hour.”

It wasn’t a negotiation.

Hooper was a little delirious now, what with the dizziness, the loss of blood, and his killer hangover. He thought of asking for a cigarette but then recalled the “No Smoking” signs plastered everywhere. These Wisconsin hicks! They can take your eye, maybe a hand or two, even a foot…but, no smoking?

Lorraine grabbed him by the back and Hooper was somewhat surprised to find that his chain was on a movable pulley chain and that he was now being dragged out towards the back of the shop, back towards the…docks. Forgetting his vow of silence, he uttered, “This ain’t going to be no three hour tour…”

“Now that is exactly the kind of humor a fella like me can appreciate my friend,” said Bruce White. He was in overalls and a straw hat, rubber boots, and strangely, a ruffled pink blouse. Hooper shrugged. A man willing to rip your brother’s lip off with a hook probably feels a certain freedom in his choice of fishing apparel. Still, Hooper was confused, because, even as he watched the gears and pulleys lower him onto the shoddy fishing vessel (Let’s call it “The Viking!” Lorraine howled), he didn’t see his brother and he didn’t see Chief Brody. Maybe he was the only one left alive. And he wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

Grinning, Bruce White answered his thoughts for him. “No son, those other idiots aren’t dead. Good Lord in Heaven. Do you people ever listen. We rely on fresh bait for our fishing trips. The Witch won’t have it any other way.

“You’re going to fish with…me?” asked Hooper. Those hooks looked bigger and bigger. And what would bite on something like that?

Lorraine started cackling while releasing his chain, causing Hooper to crash to the deck. “Oh my sweet, sweet, smelly, smelly mud duck. We’re not going to fish with all of you, we’re just going to fish with the best parts of you.” Hooper realized, he really was missing his hands, feet, an eye…maybe more. “In fact dear,” she smiled as pleasant as you like, “We’re going to use the very best parts of you and all of your friends!”

With ease, the Whites launched their vessel out into the coolness of Siren Lake. As usual, they had the lake to themselves.

Hooper groaned, watching them take his chopped hands and feet out of a bucket. Scooping pieces with a grouted spoons, they flung it out into the gray sea of Siren. “Those are my fingers! My toes! Bring them back! That’s my eye I think!” Hooper yelped, squinting.

“Oh babydoll, that’s chum. We just brought you along for the ride, we like to show our bait just what it is they’re going to be catching after all. In Wisconsin, hospitality is next to trophy fishing.” Watching the trail of blood and fingers and hands and his brother’s left leg drift off and down with the flotsam of the boat, Hooper decided, all things being equal, it was best to pass out.

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

It hadn’t been a bad morning of fishing thought Hooper. They had force fed him some kind of protein drink and fluids and maybe some morphine. Siren Lake really was quite calm at the center of it, not at all what he had expected. His fishing trip hadn’t gone quite as planned (there really hadn’t been that much beer), but, he had to admit, those Whites really knew where to find the lunkers. He was pretty sure one of the muskies was over forty feet long–it had towed the boat for fun, and, it was not a small boat. But the Whites had laughed at him assuring him that the fish in question, was in fact, much larger.

Hooper had been in an understandable daze and he had mostly kept his mouth shut, hoping against hope that they might dump him off somewhere along highway 8, just another hapless junkie with no arms, feet, and missing an eyeball. But no, he discovered that the Whites liked him so much, they were inviting him over for supper. He hoped it wasn’t fish.

 

…

 

Lorraine slung Hooper’s arms under the chain and pulled him up and into a wheelbarrow. “Thank God!” he thought, he really didn’t want to walk on his feetless legs. She plowed him down and around the back of the bait shop where he recognized some of the out sheds he had noticed earlier. Everyone in Wisconsin seemed to have multiple out sheds he thought, and then he thought further, that nothing much good went on in those sheds.

Lorraine, having fought (and fed) a monster muskie for a solid hour, knew that the Axe had long since dispersed of the pesky Minnesota truck (it was probably on its way to Chicago), sang an old fishing shanty, somewhat off key, but with an earnestness which impressed Hooper. Still, he had to ask, he really did.

“Ms. White, where is my brother and where is the Chief?”

“Oh dear, dear, dear…” she furrowed. “You still don’t get it at all do you?”

“I get I have no hand or feet. Is there something else I’m missing?” He looked at Lorraine with sheer exasperation.

But it was Bruce White who answered him. “I guess, me and my Lorraine, my sweet, sweet Lorraine (and here he kissed her), we should be used to just how plain stupid you city folk are. But y’know, ya never really get used to it. You see, we have told you all along, we deal with fresh bait, fresh ‘crawlers…Jesus, we even have it trademarked just that way, exactly!”

“But I don’t understand,” said Hooper.

“Oh sweetheart,” said Bruce White, “You will in a minute. Come on Lorraine, put him in with the others.”

Lorraine White’s eyes shone a bit brighter as she wheeled Hooper up to the large pen taking up most of the second out shed. She parked him right up to a low hanging fence and Hooper looked at mud and feces and blood and plants and corn cobs and pales of black water. With a purse of her lips, she dumped him in. Landing flat on his face and being recently handless and footless, he lay there, thinking he should have stayed home to watch the Gopher game.

Raising his face out of the piss and muck he managed to ask one final, stupid question. “Are you just going to leave me in here to die? All by myself? What’s the point?”

“By yourself?” asked Bruce White. “By yourself? Die?” this kid really didn’t get it. “Lorraine,” he said, “Do you mind?”

She didn’t. With her scraggy lips puckered just so, she sent out a clear, clarion whistle. And they came. Bruce White yelled out “Comebuss! Comebuss!” (“Come boys! Come boys!) And they came. All of them. The ‘Crawlers. Stumbling on what was left of their legs and hands, meaty portions of their thighs carefully sliced away…ears missing, eyes, Hooper didn’t see many tongues either. Inhuman, they slithered and moaned and groped their way through each other and through the silage Bruce was now shoveling out for them. Like an orgy of degenerate, limbless hoboes and mad derelicts, they clawed with no claws, bit with no teeth, they rolled and tumbled, they screamed wordless screams, and they proudly planted their mouths around as much plant material, loose leg material, or fluids they could. A mass of arms and legs and not much else, misshapen heads, much of their hair having been eaten by one another…They were naked except for bits and pieces of clothes and yarn, many of their privates had long been chummed. Their skin was yellow more than white, green and blue, with mud and claw marks intersecting like tatoos. Observently, Hooper noticed Chief Brody, his paralyzed body being dragged along helpfully by the gums of two of the older ‘Crawlers (they were nothing if not community minded!) and then he saw his brother Bobby Shaw, the hooks having been taken out, he looked a little polka dotted. Hooper thought his brother’s missing lip might have been a slight improvement. But, there was silage to fight for, and that bucket of black liquid looked wetter than anything Hooper had drank for quite some time so he made his way for it, with not a little vigor. He understood it now: The Whites would keep him and his friends, all of them, here, alive, for as long as they possibly could. And from the looks of it, some of these ‘Crawlers had been here a spell. The Whites would carve off what they needed for the day or week’s fishing tours, hook some monsters, and then throw the ‘Crawlers some silage at the end of the day. It really was, he thought, much different than living in the suburbs of Minnesota. Except here, of course, the fishing was better. Much better.

 

…

 

“You are so completely full of it, I cannot even begin to tell you…” said the drunk to Murray. Half the beers were now gone.

“True, true, true, you may be absolutely correct my friend,” said Murray. “But, If I’m lying, how’s about we go fishing some time?”

 

NEXT WEEK: SALTED TAFFY, ‘Nuff Said!