Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,62

secret delight as I wasted away!”

“That’s rather strong.”

“From the first day the slug showed up on my doorstep, I could never concentrate on my work. When I did manage to write, all I could squeeze out was dead, boring, lifeless drivel. I don’t blame my publishers for sending it back!”

Martine sighed, wondering how to express herself. She did rather like Keenan; she certainly felt pity for him now. “Keenan, I don’t want to get you upset, but you have been drinking an awful lot this past year or so...”

“Upset?” Keenan broke into a wild grin and a worse laugh, then suddenly regained his composure. “No need for me to be upset now, I’ve killed him.”

“And how did you manage that?” Martine was beginning to feel uneasy.

“How do you kill a slug?”

“I thought you said he was a leech.”

“They’re one and the same.”

“No they’re not.”

“Yes they are. Gross, bloated, slimy things. Anyway, the remedy is the same.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you.”

“Salt.” Keenan seemed in complete control now. “They can’t stand salt.”

“I see.” Martine relaxed and prepared herself for the joke. Keenan became very matter-of-fact. “Of course, I didn’t forget the beer. Slugs are drawn to beer. I bought many six-packs of imported beer. Then I prepared an enormous barbecue feast—chickens, ribs, pork loin. Casper couldn’t hold himself back.”

“So you pushed his cholesterol over the top, and he died of a massive coronary.”

“Slugs can’t overeat. It was the beer. He drank and drank and drank some more, and then he passed out on the patio lounge chair. That was my chance.”

“A steak through the heart?”

“Salt. I’d bought dozens of bags of rock salt for this. Once Casper was snoring away, I carried them out of my station wagon and ripped them open. Then, before he could awaken, I quickly dumped the whole lot over Casper.”

“I’ll bet Casper didn’t enjoy that.”

“He didn’t. At first I was afraid he’d break away, but I kept pouring the rock salt over him. He never said a word. He just writhed all about on the lounge chair, flinging his little arms and legs all about, trying to fend off the salt.”

Keenan paused and swallowed the last of the gin. He wiped his face and shuddered. “And then he began to shrivel up.”

“Shrivel up?”

“The way slugs do when you pour salt on them. Don’t you remember? Remember doing it when you were a kid? He just started to shrivel and shrink. And shrink and shrink. Until there was nothing much left. Just a dried-out twist of slime. No bones. Just dried slime.”

“I see.”

“But the worst part was the look in his eyes, just before they withered on the ends of their stalks. He stared right into my eyes, and I could sense the terrible rage as he died.”

“Stalks?”

“Yes. Casper Crowley sort of changed as he shriveled away.”

“Well. What did you do then?”

“Very little to clean up. Just dried slime and some clothes. I waited through the night, and this morning I burned it all on the barbecue grill. Wasn’t much left, but it sure stank.”

Keenan looked at his empty glass, then glanced hopefully at the empty bottle. “So now it’s over. I’m free.”

“Well,” said Martine, ignoring his imploring gaze, “I can certainly see that you’ve regained your imagination.”

“Best be motivating on home now, I guess,” Keenan stood up, with rather less stumbling than Martine had anticipated. “Thanks for listening to my strange little story. Guess I didn’t expect you to believe it all, but I had to talk to someone.”

“Why not drive carefully home and get some sleep,” Martine advised, ushering him to the door. “This has certainly been an interesting morning.”

Keenan hung on to the door. “Thanks again, Martine. I’ll do just that. Hey, what do you say I treat you to Chinese tomorrow for lunch? I really feel a whole lot better after talking to you.”

Martine felt panic, then remorse. “Well, I am awfully busy just now, but I guess I can take a break for lunch.”

Martine sat back down after Keenan had left. She was seriously troubled, wondering whether she ought to phone Casper Crowley. Clearly Keenan was drinking far too heavily; he might well be harboring some resentment. But harm anyone... No way. Just some unfunny attempt at a shaggy dog story. Keenan never could tell jokes.

When she finally did phone Casper Crowley, all she got was his answering machine.

Martine felt strangely lethargic—her morning derailed by Keenan’s bursting in with his inane patter. Still, she thought she really should get some work done