Free Box by John Locke

workshop.”
    “Afterward? After what, exactly?”
    She winks. “Let’s just say my gentlemen friends come from miles around just to drink my home-made lemonade.”
    “What? Why?”
    “It’ll take forty-five minutes to introduce you to my horses. By then you’ll have the most ragin’ hard-on you ever experienced in your natural-born life!”
    “You drugged my lemonade?”
    She looks shocked.
    “Drugged? No, of course not! I enhanced it. Think of Viagra…on steroids!”
    “You put a dead, ground-up, dried seahorse in my lemonade?”
    “I sure did!” she says proudly. “And not just any seahorse, mind you. That was Wilbur, one of my all-time favorites.”
    “Wilbur?”
    “That’s right. And see these?” She grins and points at her smile.
    “What, your teeth?”
    “Yep.”
    “What about them?”
    “They come out.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Oh no? Well, you will!” she says, looking at my crotch, licking her lips.
    “I don’t think so!” I shout.
    I turn and bolt out the door, run to my car, dig the ipecac syrup from my medical bag.
    I know what you’re thinking.
    Most doctors frown on using ipecac to induce vomiting these days.
    True, but that’s because most people want to vomit after ingesting a known poison. Ipecac doesn’t work for most poisons. But if you’re in Crab Crotch, Kentucky, and want to get dried, dead seahorse out of your stomach in a hurry, ipecac’s the choice I’d recommend.
    Unfortunately, it takes up to twenty minutes to work, so I grab a small plastic bottle of hydrogen peroxide, rush back into Faith’s house, and mix it in a cup of lukewarm water. Then I puke my guts into her toilet. When I open the door, Faith is standing there, hands-on-hips, with a sour expression on her face.
    “What the hell are you doin’?” she demands.
    “What’s it look like?”
    “Looks like you puked Wilbur into the toilet.”
    “That’s exactly what I did. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
    “What are you talkin’ about?”
    “You’re feeding people seahorses? Are you insane?”
    “You got a problem with seahorses? Because if you do, we’re not gonna get along.”
    “Are you aware seven million people in the continental United States are allergic to shellfish?”
    She frowns. “Seahorses are fish. Not shellfish. Look it up.”
    “They eat shellfish. Then they die. Then you serve them to people.”
    “No one’s died on me yet.”
    “How do you know? You sell the powder online. Five hundred ounces a year! You’ve probably killed dozens of people!”
    “That’s ridiculous. The FDA would’ve been all over my ass if that happened.”
    “Have you ever heard of vibrio vulnificus?”
    “No, but if it has anythin’ to do with my vulva, you’re shit out of luck unless you get on my good side, and quick. Because you’re killin’ my mood faster than herpes in the bean dip.”
    “Vibrio is bacteria found in seawater.”
    “Good thing I ain’t sellin’ seawater!”
    “Seahorses are notorious for carrying vibrio.”
    “Oh, pooh.”
    “Pooh?”
    “I’m notorious for carryin’ a gun,” she says. “But that don’t mean it’s loaded.”
    Suddenly the front door explodes from its hinges and crashes to the floor.
    A man and woman enter.
    Shockingly, I recognize them.
    They were on the side of the road earlier, trying to flag me down.
    What I didn’t see the first time around is the gun.

26.
    “WHAT HAPPENED TO the baby?” I ask.
    “We ate it!” the man says. “How’s that for an answer?”
    “Sadly, it was on my short list of probable responses,” I say.
    “Heard you felt up the homecomin’ queen,” the woman says.
    I wonder how it’s possible that sixteen hours ago I felt up a waitress in Clayton, Kentucky, and it’s already common knowledge in Ralston, two hours away.
    “You felt up another woman?” Faith says. “You told me your car broke down!”
    “Did he tell you he ran over a man and tried to run off with his wife?” the man