Episode 2: —SPITTING IMAGE—

Somewhere in Spiny Cactus County
Present Day

The old pickup hurled over an unpaved road. Bouncing from one side to the other, the old rickety rust bucket moaned and groaned as the vehicle bounded along the roadway. Air rushed through the open window. The roar of it threatened to drown out the radio. Thorn turned off the radio, removed his hat, and let the rushing wind blow through his hair.

“You know why I go by Thorn and not Thornton?”

“No,” Earl Lyman concentrated on the pain more than the man’s words.

“Thorn describes me better. I’m a thorn in your side, a pain in your neck, or a prick up your ass,” the Sheriff sniggered. “The air rushing over us, through the window, reminds me of flying. I love the feeling of air passing across my feathers as I glide over the landscape. You, being a mere human, can’t understand the sensation of the wind blowing over your fur when you prowl as a bear or wolf. You can’t even comprehend being an Eagle.”

Lyman’s foot ached, the missing toes, throbbed. His mind scurried to process what the old cowboy meant. Every bump of the pickup, lumbering over a big rock, banging through a pothole, or jostling about to miss an obstacle, sent shards of glass through the beaten and battered man’s body. Earl Lyman rubbed his head. Lyman picked up a bottle of water, taking a swig he let it trickle down his throat. Earl wanted something stouter. He returned the container to the holder in the console.

He glanced at the bearded sheriff with his long hair, his bear paw hands, with sweat on his face in fine beads, and thought, ‘he’s gone batshit crazy.’ Talking of being a bear or bird. What the hell was wrong with the man.

“Ever glance over from a passenger seat to see yourself driving the vehicle?”

Earl Lyman took another draft from the water bottle, peeked over to the driver seat, and there he sat, Earl Lyman, driving the car. The Other Earl turned to Earl and said, in Earl’s own voice.

“See, there are more things in heaven and earth, Earl, than are dreamt of in your paltry religion and science.”

Squashing himself against the door, his feet up on the console pushing away from ... himself, Earl’s mind raged. The water jiggled and sloshed from the bottle, soaking his shirt. The bottle rolled down his chest, landing on his crotch, it finally fell on the floor. His heart neared exploding, his head rushed with waves pulsing through the flesh under his hair, which prickled on his scalp like ants scuttling about. Hard electric surges pulsed under his skin. Blinking a few times, once again Sheriff Thorn Lang sat in the driver’s seat.

“How should I fuck that daughter of yours? As you, maybe as her 14-year-old beau, or as me?”

Earl searched his mind for the word. He’d heard it. A word that the Navajo refused to utter. The word alone could destroy your soul. A cloud passed over the sun, momentarily darkening the cab of the pickup. Thorn Lang’s eyes glowed in the demi-darkness a brilliant green.

“Skinwalker,” Earl shouted, “SKINWALKER!”

June 1981

The heat shimmered into the sky rising from the highway. A lake of blue appeared to lay either side of the road. A mirage of the sky reflected over the desert sands. Leonard Slye thought, ‘I better not have a breakdown today.’ The four o’clock heat would cook the proverbial egg on the hood of his car, or the asphalt highway, take your pick. Leonard was still more than an hour away from the town of Spiny.

Slye went against orders, but he had a feeling. That gut reaction a cop has a hard time ignoring. His boss told him, “It’s a waste of time. Just leave it.”

His boss was, more than likely, right. Even so, what are the odds? How could a brother and sister, both falling to their death, at the same place, seven years apart? The coincidence gnawed at his belly, like a dog on a bone. The pure improbability of it harassed his mind. Then again, Len Slye didn’t believe in coincidences, especially those that are so implausible.

There were other reasons to get away from Phoenix. Personal, private purposes. Lucille had been hard on him recently. He’d been a good boy for three months. That notwithstanding, she’d been on him in constant, never-ending bickering, hateful questioning, from the time he returned home until they retired for the night. Often, going to bed didn’t end the nagging. Her suspicions drove him to the brink of insanity.

At times, he desired nothing more than for her to just go away. Go back to her mother, go live with her sister, or just be ... gone. Len had no trouble abstaining from fucking around, he had a problem with her constant questions if he was or wasn’t faithful.

It was his own fault. He’d had three affairs over twice as many years. The thing was, Lucille Sly hadn’t a clue about any of them but the last one. He got careless, he got caught. With three little ones at home, between child support and alimony, divorce would kill him.

The town of Spiny was a typical desert community. Small compared to Phoenix. Still, 32,000 souls were calling the city home. Even at six pm, the temperature was 112 degrees. The waves rising from the pavement distorted everything in the distance.

Leonard Sly locked his black Crown Victoria. Taking his luggage from the trunk, he proceeded inside the Grand Palace Hotel, as he contemplated the inappropriateness of the appellation. Moving to the desk, he put his bags down, plastered his best grin on his face, and spoke to the desk clerk.

“Hello, ma’am. I need a room, for an extended period. I’m going to be here a while.”

“Fill this out and Sign at the bottom,” Jane Stout told him, handing him a registration card. “Be sure and include your license number. It’ll be 13 dollars a day.”

“Please bill The Department of Public Safety, Criminal Investigation Division, we have an account with your chain,” the man handed back the card to the young woman. His cheery disposition and handsome face pleased the woman.

“Oh, you’re some kind of detective,” twirling her hair, she smiled at him, handing him the key. “Mr. Slye, room number 127, up the stairs, turn to your right, last room on the left. I hate to pry, but can you tell me what you’re investigating?”

“Oh, no ma’am, I couldn’t say,” he tipped his wide-brimmed Rancher Stetson. Picking up his bags, Slye bobbed his head, “Ma’am...”

“Jane, just call me Jane.”

“Jane, alright then, Jane, could you tell me where the Sheriff’s Office is?”

“It’s here in Spiny,” Jane couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“Yes, I know that. But where is it located?”

“On Main street, just west of the Courthouse. If you need me to, I could have the boy look after the counter and take you there.”

“Not necessary, Miss.”

“Can’t imagine Sheriff Lang asking you, folks, for help on something.”

“No, ma’am, young Sheriff Lang didn’t ask for help. I suppose it’s too late to see him tonight anyway. I’ll just hunker down for the night. Does the Hotel restaurant have good food?”

“Better than most other places in town. You can order as late as 9:00, and we can bring it right to your room.”

“No, I’ll clean up and come down for dinner. I’d like to have a few in the bar to help me unwind before bed.”

Jane Stout picked up the phone, dialed a number, “Yes, could I speak to Sheriff Lang, please.”

Jane fiddled with the phone cord, thinking back to high school. Back to a day when Thornton Lang had paid attention to her. All the girls wanted Thornton; she’d been no exception. Try as Jane might, she couldn’t remember it. Jane Stout couldn’t fix on that moment in time, any more than she could remember who’d raped her, way back then.

“Moon’s full,” Simon took a hit from the bottle, danced an awkward jig around the campfire, and took another shot of the bourbon.

“No, child, it isn’t, they call this phase waxing gibbous. The next three nights is what’s called the full of the moon.”

“Sure, as shit looks full,” Simon sat on the lawn chair. “She’ll be wanting it tonight.”

“You want me to go into her as you, and fuck her?”

“Would you?”

Standing, Thorn Lang sampled the air, breathing in deeply. Closing his eyes, he absorbed the night. Lang reached out, plucked the bottle from Simon Green’s hand, filled his mouth with the bourbon. He moved to the edge of the campfire, spitting booze into the fire.

A plume of flame rolled upward. The Sheriff repeated the process. Turning, he took the few steps back to Simon, his eyes glowing green in a flash they were a glowing light brown. His body shrunk, clothing changed, and there stood Simon Green looking down at Simon Green.

“Yeah, I can fuck the whore for you. She’s ripe tonight, you’re going to have another baby.”

“It’ll look like its mine, right?”

“Same as the last one,” Skinwalker, the Other Simon, turned away, walking, adlibbing a stagger, he moved toward Green’s house.

Simon Green would give them a few minutes to get into the bedroom, then make his way to the adjacent room and watch through the peephole in the wall. There were only two ways for Simon to get a hard-on, getting it up the ass, or better still, watching himself fucking his wife.

Of course, Simon wasn’t fucking her, Thorn Lang fucked her as were-Simon. Simon would watch and whack off all the while, Thorn disguised in the form of Simon, fucked her raw. The small man moved with quiet stealth, to the porch. Kicking off his boots, he slipped inside, tiptoeing into the small office next to his wife and his bedroom.

Simon pulled his clothes from his body. He removed the picture from over the peephole while he slavered lotion on his hard cock. Green peered through at the action. He knew he’d nut off right fast. Get hard and nut off several more times, until his cum catch rag was soaked.

He also knew they’d keep going for a good hour or more. Thorn would pump her full of sperm. At least two loads of cum before he finished with Simon’s wife. They were removing each other’s clothes. He didn’t understand this Skinwalker thing.

“I don’t understand you,” Dolly Green fumbled to remove his clothes. “We fuck less than once every two months. And when we do, you’re like a fucking different person. You’re like Thorn when you get horny. Wish you was horny more often.”

Smacking her to the floor, “Stop using your mouth to talk.”

“God damn, that motherfucker gets e-fucking-normous when you’re like this.”

Squatting over her, were-Simon pulled her face to his crotch. Slamming his prick down her throat, he skull fucked her with fury.

Watching, jacking off while he does, Simon felt like a real man, seeing himself fuck his wife. Hearing her call his name, the adoration in her voice. Dolly crying out profanities, as her plump body yields to his hard use.

Somehow, Simon Green could never separate himself from what Thorn did to his wife. Simon believed he became Thorn, when in actuality, Thorn became Simon. Long before Thorn finished with her, Simon lay on the floor, covered in his own cum, sleeping, having exhausted his strength.

“What do you think of Sheriff Lang?” Slye asked her, raising two fingers to the bartender.

“What do I think of him, what do you mean, what do I think of him?” Jane sipped the last of her drink, peering at the man. Her free hand twirled a strand of her hair. Her eyes never left his, even when he glanced away in an escape from the uncomfortable moment.

“Do you like him?”

“Well, I don’t dislike him. He’s never had much to say to me, and less to do with me. Well, there was this, one time, back in high school...” Jane’s voice trailed off, the gaze of her eyes became distant. “No, no, that’s not right. Must’ve been another boy.”

“Another boy, what?”

“It’s private. And it was back in high school.”

“People say the Sheriff’s father used to beat him.”

“That ain’t true. Sheriff Lang was a fine man. I mean the first one, William Lang, Sheriff Lang’s daddy. It’s getting late, I should get to my own room. Unless,” Jane leaned forward, put her hand on his knee, “we go to your room so you can question me some more.”

Len Slye knew he shouldn’t take her to his room. But knowing not to, and not doing it is different. For three months, he’d abstained from straying from his marital commitments. His wife’s trust teetered, one day returning, the next fleeing. But he was hundreds of miles from her, how the hell would she find out, and Jane was anything other than a plain jane.

‘Fuck Lucy, fuck-her-up her forbidden, fat ass,’ he thought.

“Bartender, could you give me a bottle,” he turned to Jane, “bottle of what?”

“Vodka,” Jane’s smile seemed even sexier. “I like vodka,” the words tingled in his ears, filling him with anticipation.

The bartender took a bottle from a freezer, strolling to them. He handed the bottle to Len Slye, giving the man one of those, knowing looks.

Len handed the bartender the money, with the phrase, “Keep the change,” and he and Jane walked out of the room, arm in arm. She leaned into him, rubbing his arm with her free hand, her head resting against his shoulder.

“We have to stop by my room. It won’t be but a moment. I need to check on my son.”

“Son?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your husband?”

“Don’t have one.” Once Jane satisfied herself, her son was fine, she and Len moved to his room.

All pretense of getting to know one another ended when his door closed. Jane pulled him to her, kissing him. All the while, she ran one of her hands over his chest. The other hand, let loose of his head, roamed over his back, working down to his ass, and around to his cock.

The new couple’s clothing lay in a tangle on the floor. Exploring each other’s bodies, tangling up, arching of a back, writhing in pleasure, Jane and Len made love. Not it wasn’t lovemaking, call it animalist fucking. Breaking only for a shot of the vodka, they copulated. Touching, kissing, biting, climaxing, beginning over, they continued their congress through the night.

As to the bottle, Jane took tiny sips, while Leonard took healthy gulps. Jane had her reasons to drink in moderation. Mescaline from the bud of the peyote cactus, infused in the vodka, danced through Len’s veins. It riled his brain, drove him into a frenzy.

Like two rutting pigs, they humped, sucked, and exchanged body fluids for hours. Not one time, nor two, or even three, but six times they fucked. Until, after having expended all their sexual energy, they curled together.

They lay there, entwined together, in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Len hadn’t felt so alive for months. Making love to Jane broke his chains, he was free. Free from the shrew that had harped him to death for three long months.

‘Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, I’m free of Lucille, at last, ‘ he thought. The only problem being, this newfound freedom would end when he went back to Phoenix.

Jane handed the bottle of vodka to Len. Taking the bottle from her, lifting it to his lips, he filled his mouth. He pulled the container away, handed it back to her. Leonard let the vodka trickle down his throat. The drinking from earlier had him hammered.

Something else happened as well. Something inside Len. Waves of heat rushed through his scalp. The head rush caught him off guard. He blinked, widening his eyes, a flame burnt behind them. There was the vaguest of discomforts in his belly. Like a piece of meat had been, just a tad, too old.

Dis-embracing her, Len sat with his back against the pillow, which was in turn against the headboard of the bed. The color of the wallpaper changed from yellow to blue, then to red and back to yellow. He ordered his hand to push him up so he could swing his legs over the edge of the bed. His arm and hand refused the order, but his leg flopped over tangling in the sheet.

“What the fuck,” Len looked at the woman, she held a large Native American pipe. Picking him up between her forefinger and thumb, she pushed his legs into the bowl. Pressing down, pushing him further into the small bowl, his belly offered a moment of resistance.

She pushed down harder, and his gut yielded. Jane wrapped one hand, round his body, then the other. With persistence, she pushed her thumb on his head. Down, down, down he went. At last, looking up, he saw her face, gazing down at him. She rubbed her nose with the mouthpiece.

“I bet you smoke up, right good,” she placed the mouthpiece between her beautiful, full, sexy lips. Len saw the flame above his head, lower it came. Hovering just above the rim of the bowl. He could feel the heat. He felt a sucking, drawing air over his body, no not air. FIRE!

Leonard Slye burned, and his body began turning to smoke. The sucking again, he turned to vapor. Moving past her lips, past her teeth, Len was in the back of her mouth, her throat. He filled her lungs, oh god, he rushed from her into the air. Drifting above the bed, he could see himself, a cherry red glow, in the pipe. Crap, she sucked more of him into her lungs. Again, he traversed her body until she exhaled him into the air, and he joined his misty self in the smoke-filled air. Wait, he was, the smoke-filled air.

Darkness covered him. Like the dam broke, the floodwaters of nothingness poured over him. In the darkness, two glowing globes of green stared at him with a hateful glare. A man emerged from the night, a strong face, hard-muscled body, green eyes, long brown hair, all these things swam around forming a man. A ten star on his chest proclaimed Sheriff of Spiny Cactus County. He was gone, and warm waters drowned him in ungodly heat. The steaming sea became rivulets of sweat rolling down his body. As they ran down, they blistered Len’s flesh. His eyes batted open; the sunburnt them.

Len blinked several times, trying to get used to the sunlight. Slye moved his arm, he struggled to put his hand over his eyes. No, his arm snubbed the order. Len tried another time. No, his body wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t do it, his arm declined movement.

He hung naked in the air. Suspended between heaven and earth, underneath the blistering summer sun. Turning his head to the left, his arm was extended, and tied to a plank at his wrist. He turned to the right, the same thing. What the hell, Leonard Slye hung on a cross.

Bolting upright in bed, Leonard gazed about the hotel room, he was alone. The woman was gone, the bottle of vodka sat empty. A note was on the pillow beside him. He picked it up and read.

“Wonderful time last night. Can we have a go at it again tonight.”

Simon Green sipped coffee at the table. His wife alternated between cooking his breakfast and feeding their child. She whistled while she went about the kitchen. God, how Simon hated it when Dolly tooted her shrill tunes.