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DEADLINES: AN ANTHOLOGY OF HORROR AND DARK FICTION, will be released in November of 2008! Visit www.cometpress.us

Striptease on Mount Rushmore
by Ed Lynskey

A simple coin toss decided it. Sue's striptease was to be on top of Mount Rushmore. Sipping an icy pale ale at the base of the presidential promontory, Nick ogled her. Once she'd shucked down to bare-butt naked, he'd scale it and ravish her. With relish, Nick described his tableau in lurid detail. They sat at the gateleg table in their cozy kitchen.

"That's your idea for a sex fantasy?" Sue asked him, incredulous. "I won't even ask what you had in mind for us at the HOLLYWOOD sign in California."

"Just consider: electric toothbrushes, Crisco, and -- dig this! -- a cell phone-camera," said Nick, his grin smarmy as a satyr's.

"Whoa, horse. Stop right there." Sue heeled up a hand. "Enough already." Manicured nails on her fluttery fingers were painted demolition red, Nick's favorite shade.

Nick's thumbnail flicked a corner to an envelope. An official-looking letter unfolded in thirds lay beside it. They'd both read the news. Nick groaned. Sue cried. The grim probability became a reality. Called up, Nick had to report to his Army National Guard Armory in seventy-two hours. Scowling, he spoke.

"Look babe, if you can't dig this scene, why did you make the offer?"

Shrugging, Sue lit a cigarette. After exhaling a lungful of bluish smoke as twin vents through her nose, she said, "All I wanted was to do something together before you left. You dreamed up the cockeyed Mount Rushmore and HOLLYWOOD sign capers."

"Naturally, it should be memorable," said Nick. "But also patriotic. You grasp why, right babe?"

Sue, sighing, squinted through her smoke. "Yes Nick, I know why. Don't tell me again. Please."

Ignoring her plea, Nick continued. "If one of those maniac insurgents lays my ass low, I'll ship home in a body bag with a pocketful of desert sand. This trip might be our final fling."

"It could be," said Sue, in wooden dejection.

"What's say we throw together a bag," said Nick. "Put ourselves in the dark wind, make like the proverbial goosed gazelle."

Remaining seated, Sue gazed after her husband's whiplike, tall frame disappearing into the hallway's patchy recesses. Without a doubt getting Nick's notice had rocked their little world. Shit, she upbraided herself. It wasn't unexpected. Seeing Iraq splashed all over the news didn't leave any reservists feeling too warm and fuzzy. Worrying about it, she'd taken up smoking again.

Her sore eyes cut over to fix on a stack of used books by the salt-and-pepper shakers. Hemingway had been among the assigned readings this semester in her American Lit class. This spur-of-the-moment excursion caused her to miss the Final Exam. On one level, she resented taking that hit just to go dance on Mount Rushmore, of all the dumb places.

Not much of a reader, Sue had taken a shine to Hemingway. Death seemed to play a big hand in his life and times. Suicide only embroidered his mystique. Her professor -- a nitwit sporting a waxy goatee with discolored rodent teeth -- had quipped what a true marksman "Papa" had been right down to that final, fatal shot. The classroom that first day fell silent. Nobody laughed. Intrigued, Sue afterward did some checking up on her own. She discovered Hemingway drove ambulances during the First World War. It transformed the future young author into a war hero. Again, mystique.

Sue butted her half-smoked cigarette in the tuna can for an ashtray. Her next wry thought mused if Hemingway would have the now guts to jockey a supply truck in lame duck convoys through the Sunni Triangle . . .

Nick hollered from their bedroom down the hallway. "Yo, Sue! Where are our suitcases?"

She replied, "Underneath the bed, love. When do we leave?"

"Like yesterday," he said. "I popped a few Dexedrine to speed my ass off."

"Marvelous," said Sue. "So, I'd better drive first."

"Nope," said Nick. "Uncle Sam owns me lock, stock, and barrel. No cop can touch me. Right?"

"Right, Nick. You're an untouchable. A regular Eliot Ness even."

"Fucking-A I am," he replied. "Better get it in gear, babe."

After firing up her Zippo, Sue lit a second cigarette. "Why? Mount Rushmore isn't going off anywhere. Unless a terrorist blows it up before we get there."

Nick making crashing noises in the bedroom ignored her sarcasm. "Who knows?" he said. "In years to come, my face just might be carved in the mountain as Numeral Five."

Sue's immediate reaction to that grandiose idea: Shit.

* * *

Inside the hour, they rocketed west in their used minivan. Nick's arms draped around the steering wheel like a kudzu vine. His rapt eyes never left the broken white lines rushing up. The air between them had grown frosty and tense.

"Can't you make up the final?" Nick asked. "Sweet talk the professor. Tell him there's a war on. Women and men leave to fight in it every day. Tell him your husband was one."

"Just skip it," said Sue. "You've got bigger things on your mind. Forget it, okay?"

Nick wagged his stubborn, shaggy head. "Huh-huh. Tell me now what's this damn exam on?"

"Nothing."

"Damn it, Sue. I wanna know."

"All right. Hemingway's short stories."

"No shit. Hemingway. Like, which ones?"

"Like 'The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber,'" replied Sue, rolling her eyes. Lord, give me strength she thought but asked, "Ever read it?"

"Uh yeah, I believe I did once. In Easy Rider magazine, wasn't it? Fire me up a cig, babe. My eyeballs are twirling in their sockets."

"I know. I can hear them rattling."

"Huh? Oh. Hey babe, don't say stuff that might freak me out. I'm wound tight."

"Tight." Head downcast, Sue shifted in her seat. "Where's the Zippo? I lost mine."

"Should be one in the glovebox," Nick replied. "Man, this is great, ain't it?"

"Great, yeah." Sue undid the glovebox latch. Her hand frisked inside the semi-dark space. Her fingers walked until tripping over a lump of cold, dark steel. Lowering her face, Sue squinted to see what she held. It was a handgun. She flinched as if burned.

"Find the Zippo okay, babe? I'm only dying over here for a cigarette."

"It's, you know, sort of dark over here."

"Meow. Want me to flip on the map light?"

"No-no, I'm fine." Sue felt her heart pump a little fiercer. "Nick, do you know what else is in here?"

"Some road flares, a flashlight, and a tire gauge," said Nick. "Should be a Zippo, too. Find it?"

"Yep. I'm on it. Nick, what all crap did you bring?" Hurrying, Sue stuffed the handgun into her shoulder bag and tightened its drawstring top. With a crisp slam the glovebox lid shut. "Anything weird, I mean?"

Dealing her a sheepish half-grin, Nick replied, "I did rummage through your underwear drawer. Just to pick out your outfit to entertain me on Mount Rushmore."

"Did you now? Whatever caught your fancy, party boy?"

"A lacy red bra, fishnet stockings, and thong panties," said Nick. "Hot diggity, I'm steamed just picturing you dance on a dead president's face."

A strain hardening her laugh, Sue's voice grew grave and gruff. "Nicky, are you upset about leaving me here alone?"

Thoughtful, Nick didn't respond for a couple of beats. Snow tires droned under them, monotonous but not hypnotic. Dashed white lines sailed by nonstop. "I know you're a big girl who can take care of herself," he said. "Just the same, I'll cap any SOB sampling my honeypot. Rule of the jungle. It's as simple as that."

Flat hands smacked down on the dashboard. "Good God, Nick. Have I ever cheated on you?" Sue asked, her heated words building to a near scream. "Have I? Answer me. Have I ever been nothing but nice to you?"

Suspicious and fearful something else spurred her outburst, Nick shot his wife a sidewise glance. "Hey, where did that come from, babe?" he asked her.

"Never damn mind. Just cut the conversation. Drive."

"All right, all right. I'm sorry for whatever I did," Nick replied. "Simmer down. Better yet, go to sleep. You'll take over at the helm in a few short hours."

Squirming around, Sue fidgeted in her seat to put her back to Nick and the road. Sleep did overhaul her but not before she remembered about the handgun stowed a few inches away in her shoulder bag. Was it loaded? Was the trigger hard to pull? Could she fire it?

"Sweet dreams, my little slut," Sue thought she heard Nick whisper.

Receding to a velvety black swirl, she reemerged somehow in the Italian Alps. She heard engines whine in the raw, foggy night. Headlamps burnished little brighter than votive candles. As they lurched ahead, Sue rode shotgun in the ambulance's cab. Behind the wheel she saw a slim, sinewy man with a jet mustache under marbly eyes. They carried a cargo. Doughboys shredded in combat lay in back of them moaning. She glanced over a shoulder.

"It ain't pretty," said the driver. "Is it?"

Sighing, Sue shrugged a little. "Is it ever?" she responded even more laconic.

"Pack of butts in the glovebox," the driver said. "Light one up for you and me." Sue complied. "Thanks . . . how far are you going with this thing, Sue?"

"All the bitter way," she had to reply.

* * *

Shivering in the penetrative cold, Sue heard her cell phone's goofy ring tone. Confused, she listened sharp. It shrilled from inside her shoulder bag always kept under their bed table. Reaching below, she groped but found nothing. The confusion cleared. Right. She wasn't near the bed table. Nick and she were on a trip. Clawing lower, she managed to snag the loopy straps to her shoulder bag.

"Can't you answer that goddamn thing?" asked Nick as a harsh, guttural command.

"Sorry," said Sue. "I must've left it activated."

Nick made an exasperation noise. "But why?"

"It's only Mom," said Sue. "Just chill while I take her call."

"Get rid of her," Nick said in a nastier temper. "Fast, too."

Sue's "hello" prompted an older lady on the other end to ask, "Where are you, Sue? I rang at the house but only got the answering machine."

"Nick and I decided to hit the road."

"What? Why? Didn't you have exams Saturday?"

"It's a long story, Mom. Basically, Nick's unit got the 'go' sign. We split for a little fun before he ships out."

"To Iraq?"

Sue: "Isn't that where they're all headed?"

"I see. What does Nick need for a little fun?" asked her mother. "Isn't that his whole life now? To take whatever whore his wandering eye fancies?"

"Mom, let's not go there right now," said Sue. "Nick says hello."

"Liar, liar," said her mother. "Keep in touch. I love you, dear."

"Right back at you." Sue cut their connection before repressing a soft sob.

In the interim, Nick's mood hadn't lightened up. "What the hell did she want?" he asked.

"What all mothers want, Nick. To say hi."

"No more calls. I don't want to gum this up. Hear me?"

Sure, Sue thought. We can do that all by ourselves. "I'll switch off my cell phone," she said. "You ready for me to take over driving?"

"No. I'm in a sweet groove here. But the damn Dex is starting to slack off. I need to pop a few pills."

"You really shouldn't," said Sue.

"I can wait a bit yet. Fill me in about this Macomber dude."

"Who?"

"That story you were going on about earlier. Gimme the A through Z on it?"

"It's just a stupid, little revenge tale," Sue replied.

Her husband persisted. "No, damn it, what happens? I'm serious."

"All right, Nick. It takes place in Africa. This super rich couple is on a safari. The hubby, Francis, hasn't got the balls to shoot big game. Then a super pissed rhino charges them. Francis freezes. So, his bitch for a wife, Margot, aims and kills him instead. The end."

"No shit. Margot whacks Francis? But don't get any bright ideas, babe."

"Why? Do you keep a firearm handy?"

"Hardly," said Nick. "Where I'm headed, I'll see more than my fair share."

"I saw a sign back there for a rest stop."

"Thank God, too. I gotta piss like a racehorse. Keep it brief, eh? I'll have to drive faster to make up for any lost time. Anything over ninety and this old crate bucks."

Sue pointed. An exit ramp eased them off the main artery. They nosed into an empty slot in front of a small, rectangular brick building. A sharp-finned, scorpion red coupe parked next to them sported a 1960s swank. By this meager light, Nick made it for a Ford or Chevy. They split up to use the restrooms. Sue exited first. She didn't see Nick. Busy swallowing his pills with water, she figured. A door slammed. Pivoting on her toes, she expected Nick. It wasn't him.

The stocky man of medium height strode into the island of light illuminating the wall map of Virginia. He wore, Sue noted, a safari jacket and a cropped beard eggshell white. The resemblance was almost too eerie. A bit awestruck, she went up to meet him.

"You aren't by chance an author, are you?" Sue asked him.

Putting on a surprised expression, the man responded in a whiskey mellow voice. "Me? Heck no, lady. Retired plumber. Why do you ask?"

Sue waved as if to deflect his curiosity. "I thought you were somebody else."

"Sorry to disappoint," said the man. "Where are you gypsies bound?"

"To see Mount Rushmore," Sue replied. "And you?"

Even more nonchalant, the man shrugged. "I'm like the albatross," he said. "I circle the globe. I can only guess it's from an aimless rambling I didn't burn out of my system as a young man."

Smiling, Sue said, "Sowing your wild oats a bit later in life."

"Yeah but it's better to it while still young," said the man.

An anxious scowl striated Sue's forehead. "By chance, you don't own any shotguns, do you?"

"Nary a one," the man replied. "I'm a lover, not a killer. Well, I gotta blow. Good luck to you both."

"Bye." Gaping at his disappearing red tail lights, Sue swore they not so much faded into the dark distance as ascended into the starless night.

Again the door behind her slammed. Whistling through his teeth, Nick ambled through the same island of light. His eyes cast a glassy wildness. "Who was that old fucker, babe?" he asked. "I saw him in the can. Said he fixed toilets once for a living. Said he's now an albatross or some shit."

"You know what I know," Sue said as they climbed into the minivan and resumed their long journey. "He told me the exact same story."

"Weird, man, weird."

* * *

Nick asked Sue now at the steering wheel, "You remember how to make a striptease look real sexy? Gyrating hips, that bump and grind stuff?"

"It's been a while," Sue replied. "A little rusty maybe but I've still got the basic moves down pat. Don't get your balls in a bunch, soldier boy. You'll get an eyeful. Just like that first night we met."

"Smartest money I ever spent," said Nick.

"Nick?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"I just thought of something. What if the park is too well guarded?" Sue asked. "What if we can't get inside it? What if there's no striptease on Mount Rushmore?"

"Uh, yeah . . . good point."

They then rode in sullen, downbeat silence. Sue stole a stole a glance over at Nick. His head in silhouette never swayed from staring at the road up ahead. "Guess I'll have nothing to carry overseas with me," he said.

Sue said, "But you'll carry memories of me. Of us."

"Those aren't the ones I need, babe," said Nick. "I need something to stand out as fresh and original in my mind."

Frowning, Sue looked over at him under her knitted brows. "I don't follow," she said. "All of our memories stay fresh and original to me."

In a softer, more reflective voice, Nick asked, "What will happen to us?"

"You'll go overseas to serve out your tour," said Sue. "Meantime, I'll continue to work and go to school. Nothing changes."

"But what will happen to you if I get killed?"

"I expect I'll do a lot of crying but life will pretty much go on as it always has," replied Sue in a soothing tone.

"It's all too predictable, babe," said Nick. "Now take that married couple, the Macombers. They were hip. Rich. Had a lust for life."

Sue disagreed. "The Macombers were shallow, egocentric, and selfish jerks. That was Hemingway's reason for telling their story like he did. That was its message, if you like."

Nick grunted. "Well, I'd go for the rich part of their life."

"Who wouldn't?" said Sue, then, "Mount Rushmore is pretty much cancelled, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, I'm of the same mind. Plus which, I'm coming down fast."

"Go to sleep then," said Sue. "I'll drive the minivan."

"Okay, where are you taking us, driver?"

"What if when you wake up, I surprise you?" said Sue. "Then it'll stand out in your mind as fresh and original."

"Lordy me. You're the devil in disguise," Nick said, shifting to get more comfortable in his seat.

Nick's ponderous breathing clued in Sue that he'd finally fallen asleep. All the while waiting, she'd fingered the handgun inside her shoulder bag, thinking. Good Time Nick had a lust for life, all right. Always up for a striptease. Always out for fun. Always about Nick.

She knew Nick had been cheating on her for a few months. She also knew Life imitated Art sometimes at watershed moments. The handgun slipped out of its hiding. Squinting like Margot Macomber did in her glory days, Sue took careful aim. Nick slept on.

A second crawled by. Sue reconsidered. Shaking her head as if to help dispel some of the confusion, she rolled down the window and tossed out the handgun into the cold darkness. It struck the slab and bounced a hop before landing. There were other ways besides Margot's to handle a difficult husband. As she stretched to pat the wire-wool hair on his head, Nicky cooed.

"Sweet dreams, my new little pet," she whispered.