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The pieces that stuck got to join the parade。
Thirty…Six
The Iron Horse Tavern was a dingy little whitewashed shingle shack on the proverbial wrong side of the tracks； in the scrubby industrial wasteland bordering the north side of town。 The bar itself was grim and grimy； all rough wood and harsh neon signs for Stroh's and Stoney's and Bud； with three taps and a jukebox and a ratty pool table in the er。
Outside； big rigs rumbled by every few minutes； loud enough to rattle the drinks right off the bar。 The trains came fewer and farther between these days。
But down at the Iron Horse； the joint was always jumping。
It was nearly twenty after two； after all； and the gang had been socializing since eleven ayem。 Lynyrd Skynyrd was back from the dead on the jukebox。 There were maybe a dozen people there； and they were feeling pretty frisky。
For Strong John Honeger； that translated into preparing to beat the fuck out of some Volvo…driving faggot who'd made the mistake of stopping by for a six…pack。 Strong John was a burly； brainless homeboy in a black leather jacket and a filthy flannel shirt。 He was roughly the size of a major household appliance； and he looked mean enough to cause spontaneous incontinence。
The Honegers hailed from a nearby knot of narrow little tarpaper two…story hovels； and were heavy into the 〃iron and steel〃 business： the women ironed； and the men stole。
And they owned the Iron Horse by default。
〃You callin' me a liar？〃 Strong John wanted to know； thick fingers jabbing for emphasis。
〃No； I'm sorry； I just 。。。 〃 the stranger blurted。 He was well…dressed and had a perfect winter tan； courtesy of some artsy…fartsy tanning booth。 Dean snickered。 A faggot； pure and simple。 Even if he wasn't； the fact that he denied it irked Strong John to no end。
〃So you are a faggot！〃 Strong John interrupted。 His eyes were obsidian marbles pressed into rancid ham。 He smelled of tannin and too many Marlboros。
〃No！ I just 。。。 ！〃
〃So； you're calling me a liar！〃 He was playing to the crowd something fierce now； milking it for all it was worth。 〃If there's one thing I hate more than a faggot； it's being called a liar；〃 he added； looming。 〃And so far you're two for two。〃
The man yammered something unintelligible； trying to be reasonable。 Bad plan。 Dean thought。 Sweat beads popped under the stranger's baby…blond coif； as if it was just dawning on him how big a lose/lose situation he'd stumbled into。
He looked to Dean and Daryl； desperate for empathy。 Daryl flashed him a gap…toothed grin； as Strong John shoved the faggot back onto the bar。
〃I'm talkin' to you！〃 Strong John said； and he hit him； just a little love…whap to the cheek。 To get his attention。
〃Eight ball in the side pocket；〃 Dean said to Daryl； flipping back his ponytail and lining up his shot。 Dean didn't go for that kind of thing； generally speaking。 In the tiny world of his own mind he was a lover； not a fighter。 But you backed kin； no matter what。
By the door； the jukebox wailed：
〃Oooh that smell； can't you smell that smell？ The smell of death surrounds you 。。。 〃
Dean took his shot； missed and scratched。
〃Haw！〃 Daryl grinned。 〃Nice shootin'； thar'； Tex！ That's another twenty you owe me。〃
〃Yeah； yeah； shit。〃 Dean spat。 He sucked down the rest of his Stroh's and plunked it on the sill。 〃Where the fuck is Boonie？〃 he groused。 〃Bastard owes me money。〃
〃How the fuck should I know？〃 Daryl said。 In addition to their other talents； Dean and Strong John had cornered the Iron Horse free…lance pharmaceuticals market； and the Boonster had a thing for Black Beauties。
Dean moved away from the table； deeply interested in distracting Daryl from the deuce。 He sauntered off to join Strong John and his prey。
〃This guy giving you a hard time； John…John？〃 Dean asked； trading his pool cue for a handful of baby…blond hair。
〃No； I 。。。 I just 。。。 〃 the Volvo…fag began。
〃I ain't TALKIN' to YOU！〃 Dean growled； bringing the man's head down hard against the bar。 It cracked like a gourd on a cinder block。 The man went wobbly…kneed。 Dean held him up。 fist twisting around his victim's hair。 A bunch of it came out in his hand。
〃Hmmph！〃 Dean scoffed。 〃Don't make 'em like they used to； eh； John…John？〃 he said。 Harassing passersby was more than a hobby with them； it was blood sport。
〃I dunno；〃 Strong John smiled。 〃I think he likes you。〃
Dean grinned； it was like a cue。 〃Hey；〃 he said； lifting the man's face off the bar。 〃What's yer name？〃
〃Nnuuhh 。。。 〃 the man mumbled； bright streamers of blood leaked from his nostrils and lips。 〃Nuhn…Niles 。。。 〃 he said。
〃Niles；〃 Dean repeated。 〃Oooh； I like that name。 That's a nice name。 So tell me something； Niles；〃 he said； lethally ingratiating。 〃Do you like me？〃
Niles looked at him with wide…eyed terror； suddenly caught in a lightning…round of Out…Psyche the Psycho。 He had a bad feeling that there simply was no right answer。
〃Please；〃 he pleaded； hands up in supplication。 〃I don't want any trouble 。。。 〃
Dean grinned even wider： all teeth； like a dog smiles。 〃Well； that's too bad； Niles； 'cause trouble's all we got！ Knowhaddahmean？〃
Dean gave his best dimwit Ernest Goes to Hell grin and twisted Niles's hair again； there was plenty enough left to bring him down。 Niles grabbed at the bar； trying to resist； but the geometry was all wrong。 Dean twisted again； Niles's legs buckled； and down he went。 He landed on his knees； facing Dean。
One by one； the other cheese…faced denizens of the Iron Horse craned their necks to watch the show 。。。
。。。 when suddenly the front windows lit up like angry eyes； as something sputtered and roared into the parking lot。
Dean looked at the opaque glass…block front window and smiled； he knew the sound of the Booniemobile by heart。 〃S'bout fuckin' time！〃 he said。
The headlights loomed larger； as the truck drew near without dropping an ounce of momentum。 He's not stopping； Dean realized。 He's not going to stop。
At all 。。。
〃What the fuck？〃 Strong John started。
。。。 and the scorched…raw nose of the Booniemobile smashed through the front wall； bulldozing the jukebox in a wave of glass and shrapnel debris； killing Skynyrd twice in a lifetime as it plowed on toward the bar。
Before Dean could so much as say duck； the truck drove a corroded mutant wedge into him； pinning him to the bar like a bug in a science project。 He thrashed and shrieked in frequencies only dogs could hear。 Niles the Volvo Faggot was thrown to the side； came up staggering； fleeing as one of the barrels flew of the back； propelled by the force of impact like an enormous steel spitwad。 It hurtled down and clipped Strong John of at the knees even as another catapulted into the back wall like a cannonball and exploded； raining toxin down on everything and everyone in sight。
Dean looked up； still pinned and shrieking； and saw the cab door open。 He watched； still shrieking； as a shape emerged that made no sense at all。
He realized； still shrieking； that it was the Boonster； e to pay up at last。 Boonie took one look at Dean and laughed like crazy。
Then he let him in on the joke。
Thirty…Seven
Just when he thought he couldn't stand any more； Gary stumbled across an open line。
For a second； it utterly threw him。 After over twenty minutes of pacing studio B； fruitlessly picking up and slamming down the receiver； he suddenly found himself standing there listening to the first ring。
〃Yes；〃 he said； allowing himself the teeniest smile…crinkle at one corner of his mouth。
By the second ring； the crinkle was gone。
By the fourth ring； Gary was carefully regulating his breathing。 Calm down； calm down was the unspoken message。 There was no point； no percentage in panic。 The fact was that they could be out and still be in no trouble at all。 Despite the phone lines。 Despite the very bad feeling in his gut。
But by the eighth ring； there was no getting around that feeling； that very bad feeling that something was wrong。 He listened to the brrrrrrng of ring number nine； knew that ten was the logical cutoff point； listened to the silence that followed the ring and knew there was no way in hell that he could hang up the phone until Gwen's voice was on it； speaking to him； letting him know that nothing was wrong； it was okay for him to stick around a bit； ride out this little burst of public hysteria and keep the bosses happy； secure in the knowledge that she was fine and all was right with the world。
Then the tenth ring came； and he pulled the receiver away from his ear。 It shook in his frustrated grip。 He wanted to slam it down； to obliterate its power over him。 He was terrified of breaking the connection。
His gaze traveled to the video monitors。 As far as they were concerned； it was an ordinary day。 A little bit of tension being generated by the Philadelphia Eagles； but that was expected： shit； the odds were five to one in their favor。 It scarcely qualified as a break with routine。
Brrrrrrng。 Number eleven。 He waited。 As he did； his free hand drifted to the channel cue for monitor number 2； which was wire