1968.
     Vern Schillinger's tour of duty in Vietnam had begun and ended shortly after he enlisted, once the Army got done checking his *real* I.D.; all he ended up getting out of the experience was a fresh new buzz-cut. A sympathetic drill sergeant told the hulking 16-year-old to "come back when you're legal, son". Vern invited the guy to kiss his ass, and stalked out.
     (Fuckin' WAR on, you'd think they'd want anyone willing--specially since all those Hippie pussy-boys started burning their draft-cards.)
     "Guess they *still* ain't takin' faggots," the Old Man had sneered, when he saw--and heard why--Vern was back. Conveniently forgetting how fast the U.S. government had been to draft his two older sons, Karl Junior and Erik, often as he'd often disparaged *their* sexual identities--whenever he was too drunk NOT to get all three boys confused, and probably only able to tell his daughter Trudi apart 'cause she sported that huge pair of saggy Alpine milkmaid jugs.
     Well, fuck him, and fuck the fuckin' Army too: If and when the bastards ever came knocking on their own, Vern had already decided, he'd tell 'em to go piss up a rope. Call himself a consciencious fuckin' objector, if he had to; they could send him back to juvie as a *political prisoner*, this time 'round.
     He stomped around the neighborhood in his steel-toed workman's boots, cutting school and killing time before he had to clock in for the afternoon shift at the plant: Slinging slag and feeding the furnace, knotting his limbs with muscle to match his brand-new bulk. He'd made his full height just a few months before, shooting up like Jack's fuckin' beanstalk. And now, most days, all he could feel was the hum of his own hormones--a Jeckyll-and-Hyde siren's song, constantly calling him to fuck, or fight, or join his deadbeat Dad in getting way too drunk to do either.
     Angry and horny, *all* the time; more hard-ons in the last few weeks, far's he could tell, than his brothers had boasted of in their combined lifetimes. Sure every passerby saw him as some oversexed Frankenstein, Vern chafed on himself, as well as everything around him--propelled himself through life on a jet-engine vapor trail of incipient rage, trailing havoc like an inverse halo.
     One good thing about the whole mess was how the Old Man now knew to think twice before stepping to him: Couple of times, Vern'd actually been able to step *between* him and Mom, and seen Karl Senior veer away before they came to blows. Though he still knew that someday soon--when Mom wasn't around--he and his Dad were finally gonna have to do the dance for *real*.
     (...when Mom wasn't around...)
     At work. Or...out. Or--in hospital, maybe, getting over yet another miscarriage. Or over at Grossmutter's.
     Because...where *else* would she be?
     The Old Man continued to gnaw away at Vern, like some kind of fuckin' wasting disease. And the most inedible piece of bullshit he'd thrown on Vern's plate to date had to be this latest whore of his--a situation Vern had only stumbled across while applying for a job down at the post office, when he'd glanced out the window in mid-form, and seen them going by.
     'Course, Dad had whores all over--how he kept 'em all on his string was what amazed Vern, considering his disposition. But then, he guessed they only got to see the more *attractive* parts of Karl Schillinger Senior: Bright blue eyes (set off by his equally bright, flushed alchoholic's "sunburn"), a stocky but still-solid physique, an only-slightly receding head of silvery-blond hair. Dressed well, too, the son-of-a-bitch...spent all the money he SHOULD have been kicking to Mom on keeping himself in the style to which he'd become accustomed, no matter how ridiculous those pimpy suits of his looked on a man who made his living cutting up meat in a Goddamn butcher's shop.
     What tweaked Vern about this *particular* whore, however, wasn't so much the fact that she was practically his own age--so barely legal herself she'd be halfway to Parris Island by now, if she was a boy--but that she wasn't even *white*.
     Looked it, sure--but wasn't. Eva Calderon, who Trudi knew from her old high school, was one of those blonde, blue-eyes Spics you heard so much about: The ones with a bloodline went back to the Middle Ages, and a chip on their shoulder big enough to swat rats off the barrio steps with.
     Sweet little piece, Vern had to admit, with her burnished tan and a straight, straight fall of sun-bleached hair--he suspected she ironed it--that reached nearly all the way to her round, firm ass. But to see a man who'd once beaten the crap out of his own son just for TALKING to a kid he suspected was half-Jewish making lovey-dovey eyes at some jailbait senorita, 'specially when his *real* wife was shuffling around at home, barely able to keep her legs together because it hurt so much from that last time they'd had to sew her shut down at the maternity ward--
     It turned Vern's stomach. Made his eyes and his gorge clench and burn, along with his big fists; nails driving themselves into his palms, deep enough to score and scar.
     And then he found himself outside her building--watching *her* wave to the Old Man as he strode briskly away,  from the window of her apartment. Standing in the shadow of an alley across the street, with the smile on her face--her white teeth, in that honey-tinged face--cutting across his heart, a stone sharpening a stone...
     Minutes later, somehow, he was inside. CALDERON on the buzzer next to Apartment 26--just *one*, thank God, in a building full of Lopezes, Alvarezs, Diazes.
     He knocked. From inside, a soft, female voice: "Si?"
     And his new, deep voice, deepening further--sliding instinctively into an imitation of Karl Senior's growl: "Hey, baby, I left somethin'--open up, honey-doll. Swear it'll just take a tick--"
     Thinking: There's no WAY in hell she's *this* damn dumb, Spic or not...
     But, apparently--she was.
     And plowing his way in as she took the chain off, his arm thrust up under her jaw--spinning her into a headlock and dragging her into her bedroom, other hand over her mouth, ignoring her struggles: All pink and red and white wicker, the whole place redolent of unfamiliar spices, alien and enticing.
     (MUY fuckin' bonita.)
     They slammed against the wall, his leg between hers, lifting her slightly off the ground. The soft touch of her against his thigh, moving under her dress--her breasts shifting against his chest as they moved together, heaving, both of them panting like they'd just run a five-mile Army obstacle course.
     And Mr Hyde, coming away with a jerk; sniffing up from beneath his fly, blind, seeking.
     Vern knocked his own head against the wall, right by hers, to clear it--ignored her little jump, her stifled little grunt of horror. And told her:
     "You scream, and I'll snap your neck. Think I can't do it?" As she shook her head, frantically: "Okay, then. I'm lettin' go--SCREAM, and you're one dead bitch, I swear to Christ. Comprende?"
     She nodded, equally frantic. He let go--vaguely amazed, not to mention pleased, to see her up against the wall, against HIM, mute, shivering.
     "Karl Schillinger--" he began.
     "Que?"
     "ENGLISH, bitch." Clearly, slowly: "KARL. Schillinger. Big white drunk? One you been doing the bone dance with?"
     "...dating..."
     Vern half-laughed, half-snarled: "Dating, my ass. You been *screwin'* him--"
     Insulted: "We NEVER."
     "Yeah, tell me another one."
     But she was shaking her head again, fervently. Continuing to claim: "No. NO. We kissed, we...never anything else. NEVER. I would never--yo soy virgen, *comprende*?"
     "So what, you *saving* yourself?" At her stricken look: "Oh, be REAL, dumb-ass. You think he's gonna marry you, that it? You know how OLD he is? He *has* a wife. He has KIDS. He's my Dad, you stupid fuckin' hooker--we look alike, or what?"
     Stupid. STUPID. Angrier at her than he was at HIM, now, for putting herself in this situation. For *making* Vern do this to her.
     (Do...*what* to her?)
     Whatever I have to, he thought. Knowing, somewhere deep inside, that "having" to wasn't really part of the equation.
     (What I WANT to...do to her.)
     Touch those sweet Spic breasts, that sweet Spic mouth. Thrust his tongue deep inside. Catch the alien infection which makes a man cheat on the woman who loves him, abandon the kids who need him--even when he's already fucked them over so many times they rather die, or kill HIM, before they admitted they still do--
     (Fuck her. Just like he--*didn't*.)
     Supposedly.
     Vern felt his cock slap up further, his voice crack embarassingly. Repeating: "*Marry* you, shit! How dumb would you have to be, believe anything THAT son-of-a-bitch tells you?"
     (Dumb as Mom was, once upon a time. Dumb as YOU were, Vernon.)
     But she was trying to say something now, Eva--hacking it out from under the bruising pressure of his arm, pressed up against her neck (and WHEN had he started to do that again, exactly?). A wheeze, a whisper.
     "What?"
     "...said, you're...sick, you're *sick*, you--"
     A spurt of rage: Vern saw red, nothing but. Pulsing behind his eyes.
     "*What*?"
     Panting: "...sick...trash..."
     He grunted. Thrust his other knee between hers and spread them wide, humping her *further* up the plaster, hearing her gasp in response--her crotch belt-level. Reaching down to pop his zipper, hardly having to touch himself, let alone haul himself free--oh, look, bitch! The MONSTER.
     Thinking: Yeah, I'm sick, all right--sick of him, sick of you. Sick of ALL of you.
     And her fighting him hard, now--kicking, trying to bite. Voice a little louder, this litany of matching race-hatred: "White Trash, pig, you pinche wedo PIG..."
     "Oh *yeah*, 'cause you're SO much better than ME--"
     "Cabron--"
     "*Slut*, you--"
     Staring into her eyes: Blue on incongruous blue--hers hot, his cold. And thinking: Shoulda known better, you're so fuckin' *smart*. So fuckin' GOOD, and all. "Virgen".
     (But then, how COULD you know any better? You're not even human. You're...an animal.)
     "Animal," he whispered, aloud.
     And shoved himself inside her, so fast and hard it hurt them both.
     ('Cause, you don't have that *cherry*, YOU're trash, right?)
     Just like him.
     Hearing her gasp again--gulp in pain, in horror. In humiliation. Breathing in her sob, and kissing her so hard--no tongue, not THAT much of a moron, even in the throes--he felt  *himself* bruise on contact, teeth scraping his lips raw from the inside. Spitting blood, right in her fuckin' face: The final insult. And coming, coming--
     --coming, for the first time ever, inside something other than his own hand.
     And LOVING it.

Afterward, he took her by the chin and made her look straight at him, admiring his handiwork at close-range leisure: Eyes swollen with weeping, mouth rubbed red. Her flat hair glued further down, slick with sweat, its sun-shininess dulled forever.
     All of her--dimmer, somehow. Like a broken bulb.
     (Well, they say it changes you, right? The first time.)
     Warning her: "You tell anybody I did this--*anybody*--and I'll come back and do it again. 'Cept this time, I'll keep on goin' 'till you're dead."
     And her with her hands up over her mouth, the polish on her nails all chipped and flaking: Little pink nails, same color as her bubblegum-walled bedroom. Same color Trudi used to wear, back before she decided she was a Hippie-in-training, and stopped doing *any* her normal girls' grooming exercises--up to and including douching, shaving her legs, or washing her hair more than once a week (when Mom MADE her).
     But: He shook himself, hard, flicking his mind back to the moment. Not wanting to equate her with his family, with his Mom. With *himself*, in any way more than he had to.
     "And...stay away from Karl Schillinger, too. 'Cause there's no way he's gonna want you now."
     Thinking: NOBODY's gonna want you, broke in like you are.
     (Not even me.)
     Just another Spic slut. Una--what the fuck was that word? Oh, yeah: *Puta*.
     (Who's the trash *now*, bitch?)
     As he left, he thought he could maybe hear her crying. But the sound of the door shutting behind him muffled whatever it was, locking it firmly away forever: Pop, click, gone. Out of sight, out of mind.
     He took the steps down to the landing two by two, humming: Johnny Cash, Folsom Prison Blues. Karl Junior used to play it over and over, sitting in his room and drinking beer, just before they shipped him out.
     "I had the guts, man, I'd rob a fuckin' bank," Junior'd told him, once. "Army don't take you, you got a record."
     "That lets *me* out."
     "Naw, juvie don't count." Pausing: "But I'd prob'ly end up in Oz, and that's as bad as it gets."
     "Yeah?"
     "That's what they say."
     Nobody on the street but old ladies in black scarves, little kids jumping rope. Vern slipped through the alley, broke into a run, and loped home--chest burning, heart pounding. The pain in his lungs lifting the pain from every other part of him, lifting it high, and letting it blow away...
     *...well, I know I had it comin', I know I can't be free/but those people keep on movin', and that's what tortures me...*
     ...for now, at least.

At home, Mom was cooking dinner for four, like always. Probably knowing that two portions were going in the oven: One for Trudi, who'd eat it when she got back from night classes; one for the Old Man, who'd get home palstered around five and throw it in the trash.
     Calling out, with forced optimism: "Karl?"
     "It's Vern, Mom."
     "Where've you been?"
     "Checking out a new job." He slipped in behind the table, in his usual chair:  "Pay's okay, and they train you--'s down at the post office."
     "Mailman?"
     "Mailroom."
     "That's nice." Her eyes still on the flickering TV:  "Guess you didn't hear."
     "What?"
     "They shot Senator Kennedy."
     (Well, that's one less Catholic degenerate screwing up the voting pool.)
     "No, nobody said."
     Her eyes held the set, musing: "Two brothers. Two from the same family."
     "Dad home yet?"
     "He called. Working late."
     (I bet.)
     To change the subject, Vern asked--with as much delicacy as he could muster--"You get anything from Junior, yet?"
     "Not today."
     And not ever again, as it turned out--since the next they heard about Karl Junior was a form letter with a Washington return address: Kind that starts--"Dear [Mrs Jacoba Schillinger], we regret to inform..."
     He looked up, and found Mom's faded gaze on his--once sky-blue, now nearly grey, under similarly grey brows. Her hair piled high, like a congealed mess of cobwebs. Arthritic fingers reached over to brush across his forehead, gently; he had to literally restrain himself from shivering at the flood of curdled memories--the sheer, unwanted rush of love and rancor--that their frail, cool touch evoked.
     "I'm so glad they sent you home, honey," she said. "I like having my good boy home. Keeps me company."
     And: I will *never* treat MY wife like this, Vern thought, with pure and concentrated hatred. Never. *My* wife, she'll know exactly how much I feel for her--every day, in every way. I'll make her body my temple. Love her more than I love myself.
     (But then, THAT wouldn't be so hard.)
     "You won't ever go away again, will you, Vernon?"
     "No, Mom."
     (Not if I can help it.)
     A year later, however, he was back in juvie on a double beef--arson and aggravated assault; a half-year after *that*--having been transferred to an even tougher facility, where he served out the rest of his sentence as part of a junior White Power gang--he spent an all-too-brief hiatus period trying to cool himself off in the old neighborhood's stagnant pool.
     Family life limped along, much the same as always. Karl was still MIA, and always to remain so. Trudi had shacked up with some Jew union organizer she met at technical college, moved away, joined some fleabag commune full of niggers, kikes and dykes. They never heard from her again; good riddance to bad rubbish, the Old Man said--and for once, Vern agreed with him.
     Erik, meanwhile--it eventually turned out--had died during the first few days of the Tet Offensive. Karl Senior'd intercepted the letter, read it, then promptly went out and got drunk--left it in his coat, in some tittie bar downtown. And just *forgot* to mention it, ever after.
     As for Eva, Vern heard conflicting reports: She'd been farmed out to some convent; she'd had a kid (not *his*, hopefully); she'd been sold in an arranged marriage to some Old Country rube; she'd slashed her fuckin' wrists, and THAT was why he never saw her around anymore.
     But before he could confirm or deny any of the above, Mom...really *wasn't* around, anymore, and he and his Dad had alreday *had* their dance. Which left him doing adult time up at Oz--his first official go-'round, down the Yellow Brick Road--and with far more pressing things on his mind than what'd become of one little Spic whore: Keeping his OWN cherry intact, for example.
     Not so surprising, then, that by the time he finally got returned to the Real World...he'd forgotten all about her.
The End