CZ Studio and Radio Verte presents The Wild Wind by Corey Zimmerman.
Chapter 17
The Wild Wind
His paw was a wild one, and had taught him and his brothers how to howl at the west Texas
moon before they learned to walk.
His mom put tequila in his bottle, raising him out there in the dusty sage, chasing down
rabbits with his bare hands, tearing their hide right off the muscle.
If his paw said bring five rabbits home boy, then you brought only two, his paw broke a
rib.
If he caught none, his paw broke five.
It's no exaggeration to say he learned really fast that he ought to catch six when his paw
said five.
You see, he had a legacy to live up to, for he was a wild one.
Legend is, ma said, we cursed with Injun blood.
The wild ones have a passion for rabbits.
Hell, it's a damned obsession that fur.
The flesh that lies between leaves them snarling, sniffing, foaming at the mouth.
Waiting for a taste.
But it was the day he spotted a fox, a silvery, sexful fox that changed everything.
His heart pounded out of his sunburnt chest, his lips trembling until he sprung forth and
gave chase, an adrenaline he had never felt before, springing forth from the brush.
However, fox was fast and ran with all its might, slipping through his fingers time and
time again.
This left him with an emptiness, a weakness, fragility, vulnerability, and an unquenchable
thirst and hunger that shall never be resolved until he sink his teeth, his claws, his crooked
fingers into her flesh.
And it consumed all his wicked being.
He was hooked, desperate, and shallow of breath as he watched her trot into the eastern rising
sun.
He was still on her scent, but his knees had grown weak and he dropped and fell over in
the dirt, sipping tequila straight out of the bottle, listening to the coyote's cry
in the night.
As tears washed off the dust from his tarnished face, Foxy had stolen his heart, leaving him
to perish in the crisp, searing Texas sun.
He grew weak, one beat closer to death.
He laid on his back staring up at the vastness, but all he saw was gray.
His Foxy had stolen the blue from the sky.
Hate filled his heart, and for a wild one, hatred was strength.
His paw woke him with a good kick to the ribs, and the hatred grew from pain.
As his paw kicked him again and again, the pain refilled his tank until his hate was
full, until he could take no more of the pain of his paw's boot and jump to his feet and
dug his own yellow Texas boots into the earth.
It was time he head east or die.
He walked across the land where the wild ones grow like weeds, growing to become hideous
creatures, committing hideous deeds, letting nothing get in their way with a bottle in
hand.
He rambled through the dust and sage, step by step with Levi's full of lust.
With a watery jaw and crooked fingers, and blue eyes now as black as coal, he walked
into that blinding sun, chasing his own shadow toward dusk into the cold, dark desert night.
He howled with the coyotes until his yellow Texas boots fell sole up, face down in the
dry, cracked earth.
Day after day, the rising sun found its way through his windswept bangs into his bloodshot
eyes, awakening him to a groan as he shook off the dust and slapped his liver, but not
before turning to a tiny worm in the bottom of the bottle, and a wild hare sprung him
to his feet once more.
And once again, his yellow Texas boots driving him forth, only stopping for a drink and a
piss and a fight, and to skin a rabbit or two out back.
So bleeds from a wild one's heart only booze, sex, and a spawn of darkness that crossed
the land, leaving little puffs of fur to carry away in the breeze.
A wild one will take step after step, bottle in hand, all the way to the end of time to
terrorize, and take what is for the taking.
The dark heart of its own dream consume all that is weak, to piss on all that is innocent
and pure, and to taint and curse.
In a desperate need of tequila, he followed the tracks into Kansas City until he stumbled
upon a circus on the edge of town.
He met a dingy fellow from Houston selling lemonade, who said they were in need of a
tough rust about, and he looked the part, hearing that in days' time that they would
be packing up to Crosston, Mississippi, figuring he could get a bottle a night for pulling
on some rope, a piece of tail here and there.
He put on a smiley face and spent the next few days and nights sipping tequila and skinning
rabbits between shows.
Crossing the river, foxy scent was everywhere, and it drove him to the brink of madness.
As the rust abouts unloaded the wagons at the asylum depot to put on a show for the
Looney Bin, he drove the horses up the bluff, where they set up a big top.
After the show, the Wild One grabbed a last of his pay, and though he scented her close,
he waited for the opportune moment.
And as the rest of the rust abouts loaded up the boxcars with the full bottle in hand,
those yellow Texas boots jumped off the platform and kicked up dirt along a long, dusty road
to the city of Grandview.
Forget the rapes and the violence committed during those countless steps a Wild One takes
in his short life.
I personally do not care to think of it.
I know a monster like him will walk into a decent, quiet, and peaceful town, and he will
piss chaos all over the place, leaving a stench to last a lifetime.
In no time at all, the police were throwing him into the back of a black Maria.
The Wild One shackled in the back and drove down the road, his yellow Texas boots kicking
and screaming in the darkness.
They roughed him up good in his cell.
Not knowing a Wild One loves a good beating, reminding him of his paw, and after they got
bored of his howling, they let him loose, warning him to go on and get now.
But get he did not do, mumbling on his way out of the jailhouse.
I think I might stick around for a bit.
I rather like this town.
It took him but a day or two to find a fat old rabbit to patch him up.
When in return, he skinned her and rolled her around in the stench of dread.
Again on his feet, he made his way back to the bluff, where he threw in a smile for the
groundskeep who gave him a job trimming roses in the garden, with their scent swirled about.
Surrounded by nuts, he cursed them under his breath.
But then he found her right there, right there in the garden, foxy right there before him.
And he could not believe his eyes behind those windswept sun-bleached bangs.
As much as Dr. Zolot had admired Fanny's stoic nature, she had taken quite a toll on his
patients.
Nonetheless, she was returned to her cottage and given yet another chance.
Fanny lost none of her popularity after her stunt.
On the contrary, seeing how the nurses were prone to admiring their more charming patients,
this most recent performance had quickly made her a celebrity across the hilltop.
Of course, no one was a bigger fan of Fanny than that of Book himself.
Whenever they crossed paths, they shared a smile.
And knowing she was Amy all along, Book had proven Fanny could trust him with her darkest
secrets.
In time, Fanny came to terms with life on the hilltop, particularly after being outsmarted
by the doctor.
She had met her match, and it may be a stretch, but I believe she perceived him a kind of
kindred spirit of sorts.
This change of heart, along with Cecil's concurring suggestion, she sat back and enjoyed
the roast beef and surrendered to a life without having to keep an ever watchful eye over her
shoulder for the Black Maria.
Fanny, retired from life on the lam, finally called the hilltop home.
Apart from the dining hall, Fanny spent her days in the rose garden, and it should not
be an enormous surprise that the Bookbinder also found himself hastily fond of roses.
And once in a blue moon, he caught an occasional kiss blown through those blossoms.
The two bonded and enjoyed long silent walks, gathering wildflowers or blackberries.
Fanny would laugh as the berries bounced off Book's forehead.
Here, try again, silly, she would say, as Fanny threw one after the next until he finally
caught one with his wide-open mouth.
Woohoo!
Fanny would shout.
Book would lie back in the tall grass and watch as Fanny spun around, clapping her arms
gracefully with her head thrown back, face to the sky.
She was as beautiful as the breeze that flowed through her silky black hair.
She was breathtaking.
The new guy was a looker, no doubt.
And it took no time at all for Fanny to take a liking to those sky-blue eyes.
And Book grew jealous and walked away, for Fanny needed a big catch, the one that needed
wrestling.
But as it turned out, the wild one was a horny dog.
And Fanny realized he would not take much wrestling at all, or so she thought.
As he jumped right out of the river onto shore.
Wahey there, Foxy.
Fanny bit her lip.
I knew I'd get you, he said.
Fanny smiled, uncharacteristically looking down in her shyness.
She was charmed.
The cat had finally got her tongue.
She was stunned and grasped her trembling hand.
And it didn't take long for the wild one to sweet talk Fanny, behind the graveyard
home with a bottle of tequila at once, right at sundown.
She ran her fingers through his blonde bangs.
He was dreamy.
In his hands, all over her goose-pimpled flesh, she moaned, heavenly.
He slobbered all over her neck as his fingers walked up her thigh.
She moaned in that way she had always detested.
But then the wild one got a little brave and spun her around.
Shoving her face into the tree's bark, it brought it all back.
And Fanny turned back at once and scolded him.
But seeing how he could no longer hold back, his desire for her took over.
And he threw her to the ground, messing her dress with grass and stain.
Fanny had had enough, and they got into a shouting match.
But nothing Fanny couldn't handle, or so she thought until he slapped her across the
face and she saw stars.
She grew silent with shock, but before he knew it, she gave him a good right hook to
the lip.
You whore!
He yelled, grabbing her by the ankle and pulling her for the ravine.
Fanny kicked back with her free leg and broke loose from his grip, losing her fine shoe
in the nicks and it fell into the thicket.
Let go of me, you fucking hick!
So she jumped to her feet and ran toward the garden as a hand landed on her shoulder.
But when she looked up through her teary eyes, she saw a book, who grabbed her around the
waist and lifted her from the ground and carried her to a bench amongst the roses, where he
sat beside her, holding her hand and his grasp trembling at once.
I'm okay, she said, sniffling, attempting to wipe the smeared mascara from under her
eyes.
Book looked at Fanny with tears of his own and wrapped his arms around her and held her
tight.
And she cried her soul out into the nook of his shoulder, where she suddenly had a vision.
Book, his real name, it was Jacob.
Jacob had once lived with his parents and he lived a relatively normal life, until his
parents and younger sister died in a carriage accident.
Jacob was shy and he was especially none too good with the ladies.
He never had a girlfriend after all, not all through his schooling years, and he rarely
spoke to a woman outside of his own family.
And if it were not for their untimely death, lonely Jacob might have never talked to Daisy
at all.
Daisy worked as a clerk at the publishing house, where Jacob worked as a bookbinder.
She like Jacob was shy.
However, one day Daisy found the nerve to sit beside Jacob at lunch and mustered the
courage to say, hello.
Jacob was beside himself and they began sitting next to one another every day in the lunch
room.
They didn't speak much, but they shared warm smiles in one another's company.
One day Daisy surprised Jacob when she asked if he wanted to go out for dinner Friday evening.
His first thought was that he didn't own anything nice to wear, and his concerned glance down
at his lunch tray made her think he wasn't interested in her.
Never mind, what was I thinking?
Please forgive me, I should not have been so forward.
Jacob looked up at her beautiful green eyes and said, no, I'd love to.
He took the little money he had saved up over the years and went out and bought the thriftiest
suit he could afford and a brand new pair of shiny shoes at the clothing shop down the
street from his humble home.
A small apartment just a few blocks north of the publishing house on Chicago's west
side.
As Friday night arrived, Jacob showed up a half hour early to the corner of Jackson and
Wabash, just under the elevated train where they had agreed to meet at eight.
Jacob anxiously wrung his hands, staring down at his shiny shoes as the squeaky wheels of
the train above shed sparks from its track.
And as the hand on his wristwatch rounded toward eight, Jacob paced anxiously about
the corner.
When the hand struck eight, the wheels of the train pierced his eardrums.
And then as the hand rounded well beyond eight, Jacob sat down on the curb and the shine in
his shoes seemed rather dull as the shadows grew long.
However, he was patient, thinking maybe something had come up, something that she must first
attend to, that she must just be right around the corner.
He wanted desperately to see her beautiful smile, inner brunette curls and green eyes.
He had dreamt all week of holding her hand as they walked through the streets after dinner
together, one surely neither of them could afford.
But Daisy never turned that corner.
And Jacob never got a chance to pay for that meal, that meal he could not afford, nor feel
the softness of her hand, nor the smell of her perfume, as they might have leaned in
close.
But after waiting two long hours, Jacob stood and walked home, scuffing the soles of his
shoes along the long walk, imagining she must have changed her mind.
Jacob sat in his small apartment over the weekend, full of dread, nervous about seeing
her again at work on Monday.
He even considered abandoning his duties at the publishing house and seeking employment
elsewhere, just to spare himself the humiliation.
And yet when he arrived to work on Monday, Daisy was not at her desk, nor was she seen
anywhere about the floor, as he kept his eye keen on the lookout, neglecting the unbound
pages stacked before him.
And just after 10 a.m., two policemen entered and took the manager into his office.
And after a brief conversation, they left, and it took no time at all for the gossip
to spread amongst the floor, for Daisy had been found strangled to death in an alley
Friday night, just two blocks shy of Jackson and Wabash.
Jacob's delicate sensibilities were overcome by shock of the news, and his nerves broke
down in a matter of moments in grief.
Since no one was aware of Daisy and Jacob's growing intimacy, no one thought to make this
connection as to why he had seemingly lost his reasoning along with his ability to speak
as he dropped to the floor, curling up like a long lost child under the table.
The manager summoned the police, and when they returned, they carried him away without
ever taking note of his name.
The publishing house had lost two employees that day, an office clerk to the city morgue
and a book binder to the city poorhouse, where all the crazies were sent, where their stories
were utterly forgotten.