Cornwhacker

Craig’s best buddy, Cornwhacker, got his name when their biker gang was riding through Nebraska and he developed a game of tilting at the corn with a long spear on his motorcycle, trying to impale an ear. The game ran its course and he tired of it by the time they reached the wheat lands of the Great Plains, but the name stuck. They shared a tent. Lest you think there was some greasy stuff going on between the bikers in the tent, you should know there was a Mrs. Cornwhacker, also; and they shared her, too.

There were some quiet evenings on the road and some wild evenings that turned into wild nights. On quiet evenings, they’d pitch the tent and Mr. and Mrs. Cornwhacker would have their time inside first because marriage should have its prerogatives. Craig would watch the sunset with the gang and a keg of beer; then he would take his turn in the tent while Cornwhacker worked on the keg. Afterwards, they would all sit together in the tent and unwind with a doobie. More than once, they fell asleep this way and ignited the tent or the sleeping bags with the doobie. Once Mrs. Cornwhacker got some serious burns over half her face, but if you looked on the other half, she was fine, and so there was little reason to discontinue the snug routine.

On wild nights they had crank and that enabled them to stay up longer, have more turns in the tent, and go through countless kegs, maintaining a steady buzz until sunrise, when they would all pass out for the better part of the day. The wild nights were much preferred by the biker gang. In fact, the wild nights were about all they talked about during the quiet ones. Looking back, however, one can affirm that it is important to keep some balance between energy and rest, action and contemplation.

They did some riding, too, all over the country. There was nothing better in this world to Craig, than flying down the road, the wind running its fingers through his hair and a Harley throbbing in his crotch. They had no particular destination; they just went this way and that. Craig generally rode behind Cornwhacker, not because The Whacker showed him the way, but because he liked to look at Mrs. Cornwhacker’s tight ass straddling the seat. They had no need for money. In the small towns wherever they went, people gave them whatever they wanted. Well, not that, exactly. They roared into town on two hundred bikes, shaking everybody’s windows and rattling everybody’s bones, and took what they wanted, never offering to pay, and no one stopped them. In all, it was a decent life, if being like a plague of locusts can be said to be decent.

Like all good things, it had to come to an end. As is often the case, the end started with a single, innocent action, which led to an inescapable consequence, progressing remorselessly to a tragic conclusion. This single action is often very ordinary, if portentous. We can often recognize it for what it is, but are powerless to escape its trap.

This is how it started: Mrs. Cornwhacker stole a bottle of peppermint schnapps. The Mrs. rarely drank. After all, she was generally busy in the tent while the kegs were being drained. It was a good thing that she rarely drank because, when she did, she turned mean. She was not a happy drunk, you see; she was a mean one. She was the most compliant person in the world when sober, put up with Cornwhacker’s antics, and everyone approved of her hospitality in the tent; but, when she got some liquor in her, you knew how she really felt. Then, no man was safe from her spite and her spittle, and no bike was safe from her fury.

Craig and Cornwhacker were at the liquor store with her when they saw her do it. They’d been busy rolling kegs out of the door and strapping them on bikes when Mrs. Cornwhacker lifted the schnapps off the shelf and tucked it under her arm. The two men only had to exchange a quick, knowing glance before they marched together to the owner of the liquor store and reported the theft. They knew she’d be pissed if she spent time in jail because they turned her in, but they’d rather have her pissed sober than pissed drunk.

The owner only looked at them wide eyed and declared that he would never, never call the cops. They could take whatever they wanted, but please leave. He was a family man and had a wife and two children who depended on him.

Cornwhacker’s ire rose at the man’s lack of self-respect, for he was, admittedly, a righteous biker. A man shouldn’t let a bitch just take things, he declared, because then the bitches would just take whatever they wanted. He decided to teach the owner a lesson by smashing every bottle of liquor in the store. When the other bikers heard the commotion, they all joined in the fun. The owner cowered, crying behind the counter while every bottle was taken by the neck and smashed. When they were done, the gang exited, laughing and sucking on their cuts, leaving the floor of the store covered in broken glass and reeking like a late night lush.

At camp, while the bikers pumped up the kegs and cranked themselves up with crystal, Craig and Cornwhacker consulted with one another over a doobie because they needed to be clear headed. Come what may, they couldn’t let Mrs. Cornwhacker drink the schnapps. Then Craig, who was the more intelligent of the two, came up with a brilliant idea: Cornwhacker would make his conjugal visit to the tent and steal the bottle from her.

This caper was made more complicated by the fact that, when they arrived at the tent, Mrs. Cornwhacker was within and had already started in on the bottle. The Wacker started in on her, but she wouldn’t let it go. Craig assessed the situation from outside the tent. There was only one thing to do: he was going to have to go in and take it himself.

Up to this point, the two friends had always maintained separate tent visits and resisted forming a threesome. They weren’t queers, after all. But now the situation was dire and sacrifices would have to be made. When Craig entered the tent, Mrs. Cornwhacker was keeping Mr. Cornwhacker’s ears warm between her thighs while she took another slug on the bottle. Craig saw he would have to occupy the upper half and so, with his tongue, he dove into her minty mouth and pinned her hands back. After a spell, she got them free and Craig thought he would have to wrestle the bottle away from her, but she let go of it and started to undo his fly. The schnapps lay on the floor of the tent, unclaimed, so Craig snatched it up. He was about to make a hasty exit, pleading that he couldn’t get hard, but his penis sprang from his undone fly like a released catapult. When Mrs. Cornwhacker started to suck, Craig decided he could wait a while before he left.

The three continued in this vein until, first, Mrs. Cornwhacker came, and then came Craig. For a minute, Craig forgot his mission until Mrs. Cornwhacker, wanting a chaser, reached for the schnapps. Then Craig remembered why he had come before he came. With his pants undone, he tucked the bottle under his arm and charged out of the tent like a fullback breaking through the line. Mrs. Cornwhacker ran after him, bare assed and furious, but still not as furious as when she was fully drunk. The tent collapsed behind Mrs. Cornwhacker and Mr. Cornwhacker struggled out of it. The gang watched the scene from the kegs and cheered on all the participants. Craig reached his bike and Mrs. Cornwhacker grabbed at the seat as he kicked it to life. She couldn’t hold on, though, as he sped away, clenching the schnapps between his legs.

During the get-away, Mr. Cornwhacker crept towards his bike, quietly because he didn’t want Mrs. Cornwhacker to see him go towards it and remember that she had a key. That was a good thing, because, as soon as she was done giving the finger to the jeering bikers by the kegs, she ran back to the tent to get the key. Mr. Cornwhacker had plenty of time to get on his bike and ride after Craig, following the plume of dust that rose up behind him, for they were on a dirt back road, out in the country.

Mr. Cornwhacker found his friend sitting under a cottonwood by a river. It was a pretty big river. It might have been the Missouri because that’s where they were, in Missouri. When he shut off the bike there was no other sound but the sound of the river, no betrayed banshee could be heard stalking them on a stolen bike. Just the same, they knew it was just a matter of time before Mrs. Cornwhacker coaxed some horny biker, who had the hots for her, into letting her borrow his bike. The prudent thing to do would be to finish the bottle before she got to it. It would take some doing. Even though Mrs. Cornwhacker had already had a few swallows, this bottle was the largest on the market. They figured they were up to the task, though, because they were experienced drinkers. So they set to work in a craftsman-like manner while the big, thirsty Missouri staggered past them and their cottonwood tree.

It was autumn and nightfall, and the air was starting to get nippy. Craig had his jacket and Cornwhacker didn’t so they shared it by spreading it over them like a blanket. Even though they had no woman lying between them now, it was every bit as snug as the evenings in the tent. The schnapps felt like a flame reaching down their throats into their bellies and the rest of their bodies were warm from shared body heat. Their noses were cold, though; but that made it all the more delightful, for to enjoy warmth best, some tiny part of us must be chilled.

The two continued in this cozy manner while the schnapps set to work inside them, unlocking every drawer and cupboard like a meticulous health inspector. From time to time, Craig shut his eyes to better feel the groping fingers of the schnapps on his body. Then, fighting sleep, for he had not prepared himself for a drinking binge with crank, he startled awake. One of these awakenings came, arm in arm, with a revelation. He and Cornwhacker shared one woman, one jacket, one tent, one bottle, and one friendship. They were really one person, not two. That’s why they hung together. That’s why they were inseparable. Of course, they didn’t share everything. Whacker had the indignation and Craig had the intelligence, but that just proved the point. They didn’t need everything alone, because together they shared. Of course, they had two bikes to ride, two pricks to fuck with, and two mouths to drink beer and do drugs with, but why not? If you’re going to be one person, go ahead and have two bodies and have twice the fun. The whole arrangement had distinct advantages; you had to admit.

Craig no sooner had this thought than he spoke it aloud, for there is no difference between thinking a thought and speaking it aloud when schnapps has its way. Whacker didn’t reply. Instead, he suddenly flung the jacket off them and stood up. Craig thought he had said some queer thing and Whacker was going to beat the shit out of him to teach him a lesson, but Whacker went to his bike. It wasn’t like The Whack Man to run away in an indignant huff, thought Craig, but, when he heard the buzz of an approaching bike, he understood the situation. Mrs. Cornwhacker was coming for them.

If the friends had remained under their cottonwood tree by the river in the gathering dusk, then Mrs. Cornwhacker probably never would have found them. But, just as a squirrel treed by a dog will try to make a run for it out of stupid anxiety instead of staying put and waiting it out, Whacker took flight on his bike before Craig could stop him. Mrs. Cornwhacker easily took up the scent and chased him down the river road and Craig followed, just to see what happened. The chase continued for a mile or two and Whacker still might have gotten away because he was a good rider, but there was too much schnapps involved. While schnapps may be a brilliant hostess, good at getting a conversation going, it’s a lousy driver; and Whacker, instead of holding a tight turn, rode his bike over a bank and into the river.

Mrs. Cornwhacker saw the accident and slammed on the brakes. She didn’t ride much, and so she couldn’t control the bike as it lay down, skidding over her pinned leg on the gravel road. Craig, following hard behind, couldn’t avoid hitting her. When his bike stopped, he kept going, sailing over the handlebars and somersaulting on the road. Drunk people often walk away from accidents unharmed, and so did he, but it took him a while to collect himself. By that time, it was too late for Cornwhacker, who had been knocked unconscious and drowned in the river. Craig fished him out and tried mouth to mouth, but he didn’t know mouth to mouth. Eventually he gave up, sobbed over Whacker’s body, and passed out, drunk, on his chest.

This story was adapted from the author's novel, Fate's Janitors.