A lone cicada flew across the face of the moon. Rising gibbous above the forest, this moon looked like chisled custard to Artie Hoffman as he sat on the front steps of their newly completed saltbox house deep in the Oregon wilderness.
Cherry Blossom had brought a favorite record for them to hear. On the album cover was a group that resembled themselves. The Joy of Cooking. Artie listened with one ear, his mind on something singularly loathesome. There was a killer lurking in the woods just beyond the split-rail fence. Artie had found fresh prints tracking through the victory garden. He covered them up, saying nothing to anyone. It was essential to come up with a plan.
Without a doubt, it was the Mormon man in black, who had sworn death to Leah and himself. Who had barbarously pummeled Fatso Sid into a neurotic fear of boots-on-the-floor. The Potlatch general store was no more.
"Hey, man," Mister Zig-Zag asked. "Why the dark face?"
"Thoughts, Ziggy. Just thoughts."
Tonight the Boone's Farm was strawberry and the weed was from British Columbia.
I feel like Frankenstein, Artie was thinking. Stalked by a monster thrashing just beyond vision.
Leah strolled barefoot from the Listening Room and sat beside Artie. Her armpits smelled of a vanilla soap. Her eyes danced with summer sex.
She kissed him and retired to the bedroom. Artie watched her go, and then he heard the cicada up in the eaves.
"G'night, Ziggy. You guys stay long as you want. Lock the door."
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