It was a town he could understand because it understood him. It was Santa Fe, New Mexico. He was Jack Grabber. Most places nowadays have a problem with drifters. Not this place. If it didn’t exactly embrace them it didn’t look down on them either. Whereas in most places you can’t easily hitch a ride anymore, it was not so here. Drivers in the Southwest still tended to sympathize with the down-and-out and were willing to help a stranger in need. When their bodies were found a day later you couldn’t help but admire their big hearts. They still had faith in humanity.

“Faith”. Grabber said it out loud and smiled. The driver who had picked him up glanced over at him like he was crazy. And maybe he was. Maybe he was. Grabber loved the clean mountain air that streamed into the car through small slit where his window was rolled down a little. He wanted more of that air so he turned, grabbed the window at the top with both hands and forced it down further with all his might. “Jesus, man, use the goddamn switch”, the driver protested. “I don’t use machines”, Grabber said, pulling the cell phone from his pocket to see if he had missed the call. He hadn’t. Where was Samir Godot? They had agreed to meet today and he had never known Samir to go back on his word.

Samir was a hard man. Ex-Republican Guardsman from Iraq. Like Grabber, Godot had been run out of the military against his will. Grabber for issuing commands to an officer who outranked him. Godot for an alleged rape. He hadn’t done it, but unfortunately the massive amount of evidence presented at the trial convinced the jury of twelve peers. An ugly smile formed on Grabber’s lips. “I bet if there were thirteen he would have gotten off” he said out loud. The driver began to sweat. “STOP” he roared. The man jammed the brakes on before the sound had ceased echoing off the dashboard. His hands were trembling. “I MEANT STOP SWEATING” Grabber yelled. The guy started the car back up. “STOP”, Grabber shrieked again. “I can’t”, the driver feebly protested. “ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS HIT THE BRAKES”, Grabber yelled. “To stop sweating” the man asked with fear streaked throughout his faltering voice. “NO, I WANTED TO GET OUT THERE” Grabber yelled louder than anything the man had ever heard. He pulled over. Fast. Grabber got out. Before the man could take off, Grabber leaned back in the window. The man cringed. “Thanks for the ride,” Grabber said, “no one ever stop to pick me up. I can’t say that I blame them either. Not a great idea to take on a hitchhiker who is 6’5, 250 lbs, so it really makes things hard for me, as you can imagine. But you were different. It really means something to me. I don’t show my emotions on my sleeve, but… (and here his voice faltered touchingly) it’s little things like this that really touch my heart. Now it’s time to see some titties jiggle.” The man almost looked more scared now. “What?” he managed to say quietly. Grabber pointed back behind him to the dark little building. The neon sign said “Cheeks” and had a nude woman on it. He looked back to Grabber. “Uh, ok” he said, “no problem.” Grabber didn’t say a thing, just put two outstretched fingers so they pointed out from where his nipples were, nodded, and started walking toward the club.

The inside of Cheeks was small, darkly lit, and teaming with the smell of soured beer and low self-value. Girls born with little other than beauty milled around in little outfits picked out for them by fat, balding, old men. In a way they had chosen it but in a way they hadn’t. If they had been born to another family or in another town maybe they be a normal level of slutty. Instead they turned out a little more slutty than that. These girls gyrated and fellated for the basest of reasons. Money. While the luckier, classy girls fellated for a sense of acceptance, a nice new dress or part-ownership of a cute little Miata. A very pert little stripper walked by Grabber. He slapped her ass once, hard, and sarcastically said “oops, I don’t have any ones on me, I’ll have to remember to pay you later” with a wink. She feigned disgust but then smiled as she walked away. After all, he was 6’5. “Nice flapjacks” he said to another. Then he got her digits and headed over to the main room. Grabber was on his fifth personal table dance and had just slid an IOU under the girl’s (for she was but a child) strap when a huge commotion went up in the hallway that led to the shitters. A girl was yelling and screaming in real distress and pain. It was hard to tell what she was saying because the voice was so manic and anguished, so Grabber sat and listened intently until he was sure that she was being accosted by some hooligan who didn’t realize that he was currently in the last minute of his life.

“That’s it” Grabber yelled, picking up his table in one big hand and smashing it on the edge of the stage, knocking the dancer down. He stormed back toward the restrooms, grabbed the back of the attackers collar so hard that three buttons in the front of the shirt ripped off and his pants fly burst, and was turning him for the first (and probably fatal) right hook when he suddenly stopped in his tracks. An enormous smile spread across his face like a storm of happiness. SAMIR GODOT!

The woman was crying and trembling on the ground. “You old joker,” Grabber said, “I thought she really was in trouble! That someone was actually trying to rape her!” He laughed hard for what felt like ten minutes. He laughed hard for what also in fact actually was ten minutes. His friend Samir laughed with him with a wild look in his eyes. Something bulged in his pant-front that Grabber assumed was a gun though the placement was a bit odd. Grabber slapped him on the back as they both calmed down. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. Then, looking at the woman who still gazed up at Godot, her hands crossed defensively between her legs, he added “and you, my lady, are quite the actress” before taking Godot’s arm and leading him away. Godot turned once and told the girl “this isn’t over.” Grabber guessed it meant that they had another prank in store for him.

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