"Oh looka that, you dumb dork!" The Kid exclaimed. His tone was one of great outrage. Suddenly the .45 was pointed at Trash, its bore as big and dark as an ocean liner's smokestack. Trashcan felt his groin go numb. He thought he might be pissing himself, but had no way of telling for sure.

"I'm gonna venilate your thinkin-machine for that," The Kid said. "You done spilt the beer. If it was any other kind I wun't do it, but that was Coors Coors you spilled. I'd you spilled. I'd piss piss Coors if I could, you believe that happy crappy?" Coors if I could, you believe that happy crappy?"

"Sure," Trashcan whispered.

"And do you think they're makin any more Coors these days, Trash? That seem very fuckin likely to you?"

"No," Trashcan whispered. "Guess not."

"You're fuckin right. It's a dangered spee-shees." He raised the gun slightly. Trashcan Man thought it was the end of his life, the end of his life for sure. Then The Kid lowered the gun again ... slightly. He had an absolutely vacant look on his face. Trashcan guessed this expression indicated deep thought. "I'll tell you what, Trash. You get you another can, and you chug it. If you can chug the whole thing, I won't send you to the Cadillac Ranch. You believe that happy crappy?"

"What's ... what's chugging?"

"Jesus Christ, boy, you as dumb as a stone boat! boat! Drink the whole can without Drink the whole can without stoppin, stoppin, that's what chuggin is! Where you been spendin your time, motherfuckin Africa? You want to get on the stick, Trashy. If I have to put one inya, it goes right in your eye. I got this sucker loaded up with dumdums. Open you right the fuck up, turn you into a fuckin buffet dinner for the cockroaches in this dump." He gestured with the pistol, his red eyes fixed on Trash. There was a speckle of beer-foam on his upper lip. that's what chuggin is! Where you been spendin your time, motherfuckin Africa? You want to get on the stick, Trashy. If I have to put one inya, it goes right in your eye. I got this sucker loaded up with dumdums. Open you right the fuck up, turn you into a fuckin buffet dinner for the cockroaches in this dump." He gestured with the pistol, his red eyes fixed on Trash. There was a speckle of beer-foam on his upper lip.

Trashcan went to the cardboard carton, selected a beer, and popped the top.

"Go on. Ever drop. And if you puke it back up, you're a gone fuckin goose. "

Trashcan Man upended the can. Beer gurgled out. He swallowed convulsively, his Adam's apple going up and down like a monkey on a stick. When the can was empty he dropped it between his feet, fought a seemingly endless battle with his gorge, and won his life back in one long, echoing belch. The Kid threw his small head back and laughed with tinkling delight. Trash swayed on his feet, grinning sickly. All at once he was a lot drunk instead of a little.

The Kid holstered his piece.

"Okay. Not bad, Trashcan Man. Not too motherfuckin shabby."

The Kid continued to drink. Squashed cans piled up on the motel bed. Trash held a can of Coors between his knees and sipped on it whenever The Kid seemed to be looking at him with disapproval. The Kid muttered on and on, his voice growing ever lower and more Southern as the empties piled up. He talked of places he had been. Races he had won. A load of dope he had run across the border from Mexico in a laundry truck with a 442 hemi engine under the hood. Nasty stuff, he said. All dope was nasty motherfuckin stuff. He never touched it himself, but boy-howdy, after you muled a few loads of that shit, you could wipe your ass with gold toilet-paper. At last he began to nod off, the little red eyes closing for longer and longer periods, then coming reluctantly back to half-mast.

"Gonna get him, Trashy," The Kid muttered. "I'll go out there, check it out, keep kissin his motherfuckin ass until I see how the land lays. But nobody orders this Kid around. No-fuckin-body. Not for long. I don't do piecework. If I'm on a job, I run it. That's just my style. I dunno who he is or where he comes from or how he can broadcast into our motherfuckin thinkin-machines, but I'm gonna run him right the fuck"-huge yawn-"outta town. Gonna shut him down. Gonna send him to the Cadillac Ranch. Stick with me, Crash, or whoever the fuck y are."

He collapsed slowly backward onto the bed. His can of beer, freshly opened, fell from his relaxing hand. More Coors puddled on the rug. The case was gone, and by Trashcan's reckoning, The Kid had gotten through twenty-one cans of it himself. Trashcan Man couldn't understand how such a little man could drink so much beer, but he did did understand what time it was: time for him to go. He understand what time it was: time for him to go. He knew knew that, but he felt drunk and weak and ill. What he wanted more than anything was to sleep for a little while. That would be all right, wouldn't it? The Kid was apt to sleep like a log all night, maybe half of tomorrow morning, too. Plenty of time for him to take a little nap. that, but he felt drunk and weak and ill. What he wanted more than anything was to sleep for a little while. That would be all right, wouldn't it? The Kid was apt to sleep like a log all night, maybe half of tomorrow morning, too. Plenty of time for him to take a little nap.

So he went into the other room (tiptoeing in spite of The Kid's comatose state) and closed the connecting door as well as he could- which wasn't very well. The force of the bullets had warped it somehow. There was a wind-up alarm-clock on the dresser. Trash wound it, set it for midnight since he didn't know (and didn't care) what time it really was, and then set the alarm for five o'clock. He lay down on one of the twin beds without even stopping to take off his sneakers. He was asleep in five minutes.

He woke up sometime later, in the dark grave of the morning, with the smell of beer and puke blowing across his face in a dry little gale. Something was in bed with him, something hot and smooth and squirmy. His first panicky thought was that a weasel had somehow gotten right out of his Nebraska dream and into reality. A whimpery little moan came out of him as he realized that the animal in bed with him, while not big, was too big to be a weasel. He had a headache from the beer; it drilled mercilessly at his temples.

"Grab on me," The Kid whispered in the dark. Trashcan's hand was seized and led to something hard and cylindrical and throbbing like a piston. "Jerk me off. Go on, jerk me off, you know what to do, I saw that the first time I looked atcha. Come on, ya motherfuckin jerkoff, jerk me off. "

Trashcan Man knew how to do it. In many ways it was a relief. He knew about it from the long nights in stir. They said it was bad, that it was queer, but what the queers did was better than what some of the others did, the ones who spent their nights sharpening spoon-handles into shanks, and the ones who just lay there on their bunks, cracking their knuckles and looking at you and grinning.

The Kid had put Trashcan's hand on the kind of gun he understood. He closed his hand around it and began. After it was over The Kid would fall asleep again. Then he would creep out.

The Kid's breath was becoming ragged. He began to bump his hips in time with Trashcan's strokes. Trash did not at first realize The Kid was also unbuckling his belt, then slipping his jeans and underpants down to his knees. Trash let him. It didn't matter if The Kid wanted to slip it to him. Trash had had it slipped to him before. You didn't die. It wasn't poison.

Then his hand froze. Whatever it was suddenly pressing against his anus, it wasn't flesh. It was cold steel.

And suddenly he knew knew what it was. what it was.

"No," he whispered. His eyes were wide and terrified in the dark. Now he could dimly see that homicidal doll's face in the mirror, hanging over his shoulder with its hair in its red eyes.

"Yes," The Kid whispered back. "And you don't want to lose a stroke, Trashy. Not one motherfuckin stroke stroke. Or I might just pull the trigger on this thang. Blow your shit-factory all to hell and gone. Dumdums, Trashy. You believe that happy crappy?"

Whining, Trashcan began to stroke him again. His whines became little gasps of pain as the barrel of the .45 worked its way into him, rotating, gouging, tearing. And could it be that this was exciting him? It was.

Eventually his excitement became apparent to The Kid.

"Like it, dontcha?" The Kid panted. "I knew you would, you bag of pus. You like having it up your ass, dontcha? Say yes, pusbag. Say yes or right to hell you go."

"Yes," Trashcan Man whimpered.

"Want me to do it to you?"

He didn't. Excited or not, he didn't. But he knew better than to say so. "Yes."

"I wouldn't touch your dick if it was diamonds. Do it yaself. Why you think God gave you two hands?"

How long did it go on? God might know; the Trashcan Man did not. A minute, an hour, an age-what was the difference? He became sure that at the instant of The Kid's orgasm he would feel two things simultaneously : the hot jet of the small monster's semen on his belly and the mushrooming agony of a dumdum bullet roaring up through his vitals. The ultimate enema.

Then The Kid's hips froze and his penis went through its convulsions in Trashcan Man's hand. His fist became slick, like a rubber glove. An instant later, the pistol was withdrawn. Silent tears of relief gushed down Trashcan's cheeks. He was not afraid to die, at least not in the service of the dark man, but he did not want to die in this dark motel room at the hands of a psychopath. Not before he had seen Cibola. He would have prayed to God, but he knew instinctively that God would not lend a sympathetic ear to those who had thrown their allegiance to the dark man. And what had God ever done for the Trashcan Man, anyway? Or for Donald Merwin Elbert either, for that matter?

In the breathing silence The Kid's voice rose in song, offkey, cracking, trailing down toward sleep: "My buddies an me are gettin real well known ... yeah, the bad guys know us an they leave us alone ... "

He began to snore.

Now I'll leave, Trashcan Man thought, but he was afraid that if he moved, he would wake The Kid up. Trashcan Man thought, but he was afraid that if he moved, he would wake The Kid up. I'll leave just as soon as I'm sure he's really asleep. Five minutes. Shouldn't take any longer than that. I'll leave just as soon as I'm sure he's really asleep. Five minutes. Shouldn't take any longer than that.

But no one knows how long five minutes is in the dark; it might be fair to say that, in the dark, five minutes does not exist. He waited. He rolled in and out of a doze without knowing he had dozed. Before long he had slipped down the slide of sleep.

He was on a dark road that was very high. The stars seemed close enough to reach up and touch; it seemed you could just pick them off the sky and pop them into a jar, like fireflies. It was bitterly cold. It was dark. Dimly, frosted with starshine, he could see the living rockfaces through which this highway had been cut.

And in the darkness, something was walking toward him.

And then his his voice, coming from nowhere, coming from everywhere : voice, coming from nowhere, coming from everywhere : In the mountains I'll give you a sign. I'll show you my power. I'll show you what happens to those who would set themselves against me. Wait. Watch. In the mountains I'll give you a sign. I'll show you my power. I'll show you what happens to those who would set themselves against me. Wait. Watch.

Red eyes began to open in the dark, as if someone had set out three dozen danger lamps with hoods on them and now that someone was pulling the hoods off in pairs. They were eyes, and they surrounded the Trashcan Man in a fey ring. At first he thought they were the eyes of weasels, but as the ring tightened around him he saw they were great gray mountain wolves, their ears cocked forward, foam dripping from their dark muzzles.

He was afraid.

They are not for you, my good and faithful servant. See?

And they were gone. Just like that, the panting gray timberwolves were gone.

Watch, the voice said. the voice said.

Wait, the voice said. the voice said.

The dream ended. He woke to discover bright sunshine falling in through the motel room window. The Kid was standing in front of it, seeming none the worse for wear from his bout with the now-defunct Adolph Coors Company the night before. His hair was combed into its former shining swirls and eddies, and he was admiring his reflection in the glass. He had slipped his leather jacket over the back of a chair. The rabbits' feet dangled from the belt like tiny corpses from a gibbet.

"Hey, pusbag! I thought I was gonna hafta grease your hand again to wake you up. Come on, we got us a big day ahead. Lotta stuff gonna happen today, am I right?"

"You sure are," the Trashcan Man replied with a queer smile.

When the Trashcan Man swam out of sleep on the evening of August 5, he was still lying on the blackjack table in the casino of the MGM Grand Hotel. Sitting backward on a chair in front of him was a young man with lank straw-blond hair and mirror sunglasses. The first thing Trash noticed was the stone which hung about his neck in the v v of his open sport-shirt. Black, with a red flaw in the center. Like the eye of a wolf in the night. of his open sport-shirt. Black, with a red flaw in the center. Like the eye of a wolf in the night.

He tried to say he was thirsty and managed only a weak "Gaw!" sound.

"You sure did spend some time in the hot sun, I guess," Lloyd Henreid said.

"Are you him?" him?" Trash whispered. "Are you-" Trash whispered. "Are you-"

"The big guy? No, I'm not him. Flagg's in L.A. He knows you're here, though. I talked to him on the radio this afternoon."

"Is he coming?"

"What, just to see you? you? Hell, no! He'll be here in his own good time. You and me, guy, we're just little people. He'll be here in his own good time." And he reiterated the question he had asked the tall man that morning, not long after Trashcan Man had stumbled in. "Are you that anxious to see him?" Hell, no! He'll be here in his own good time. You and me, guy, we're just little people. He'll be here in his own good time." And he reiterated the question he had asked the tall man that morning, not long after Trashcan Man had stumbled in. "Are you that anxious to see him?"

"Yes ... no ... I don't know."

"Well, whichever way it turns out to be, you'll get your chance."

"Thirsty ..."

"Sure. Here." He handed over a large thermos filled with cherry Kool-Aid. Trashcan drained it at a draught, then leaned over, holding his belly and groaning. When the cramp had passed, he looked at Lloyd with dumb gratitude.

"Think you could eat something?" Lloyd asked.

"Yes, I think so."

Lloyd turned to a man standing behind them. The man was idly whirling a roulette wheel, then letting the little white ball bounce and rattle.

"Roger, go tell Whitney or Stephanie-Ann to rustle this man up some fries and a couple of hamburgers. Naw, shit, what am I thinking about? He'll ralph all over the place. Soup. Get him some soup. That okay, man?"

"Anything," Trash said gratefully.

"We got a guy here," Lloyd said, "name of Whitney Horgan, used to be a butcher. He's a fat, loud sack of shit, but don't that man know how to cook! Jesus! And they got everything here. The gennies were still running when we moved in, and the freezers're full. Fucking Vegas! Ain't it the goddamndest place you ever saw?"

"Yeah," Trash said. He liked Lloyd already, and he didn't even know his name. "It's Cibola."

"Say what?"

"Cibola. Searched for by many."

"Yeah, been plenty people searchin for it over the years, but most of em go away sort of sorry they found it. Well, you call it whatever you want, buddy-looks like you almost cooked yourself gettin here. What's your name?"

"Trashcan Man."

Lloyd didn't seem to think this a strange name at all. "Name like that, I bet you used to be a biker." He stuck out a hand. The tips of his fingers still bore the fading marks of his stay in the Phoenix jail where he had almost died of starvation. "I'm Lloyd Henreid. Pleased to meet you, Trash. Welcome aboard the good ship Lollypop." Lollypop."

Trashcan Man shook the offered hand and had to struggle to keep from weeping with gratitude. So far as he could remember, this was the first time in his life someone had offered to shake his hand. He was here. He had been accepted. At long last he was on the inside of something. on the inside of something. He would have walked through twice as much desert as he had for this moment, would have burned the other arm and both legs as well. He would have walked through twice as much desert as he had for this moment, would have burned the other arm and both legs as well.

"Thanks," he muttered. "Thanks, Mr. Henreid."

"Shit, brother-if you don't call me Lloyd, we'll have to throw that soup out."

"Lloyd, then. Thanks, Lloyd."

"That's better. After you eat, I'll take you upstairs and put you in a room of your own. We'll get you doing something tomorrow. The big guy's got something of his own for you, I think, but until then there's plenty for you to do. We've got some of the place running again, but nowhere near all of it. There's a crew up at Boulder Dam, trying to get all the power back on. There's another one working on water supplies. We've got scout parties out, we've been pulling in six or eight people a day, but we'll keep you off that detail for a while. Looks like you've had enough sun to last you a month."

"I guess I have," Trashcan Man said with a weak smile. He was already willing to lay down his life for Lloyd Henreid. Gathering up all of his courage, he pointed at the stone which lay in the hollow of Lloyd's throat. "That-"

"Yeah, us guys who are sort of in charge all wear em. His His idea. It's jet. Not really a rock at all, you know. It's like an oil bubble." idea. It's jet. Not really a rock at all, you know. It's like an oil bubble."

"I mean ... the red light. The eye."

"Looks like that to you too, huh? It's a flaw. Special from him. him. I'm not the smartest guy he's got, not even the smartest guy in good ole Lost Wages, not by a long shot. But I'm ... shit, I guess you'd say I'm his mascot." He looked closely at Trash. "Maybe you too, who knows? Not me, that's for sure. He's a close one, Flagg is. Anyway, we heard about you special. Me and Whitney. That's not the regular drill at all. Too many comin in to take special notice of many." He paused. "Although I guess I'm not the smartest guy he's got, not even the smartest guy in good ole Lost Wages, not by a long shot. But I'm ... shit, I guess you'd say I'm his mascot." He looked closely at Trash. "Maybe you too, who knows? Not me, that's for sure. He's a close one, Flagg is. Anyway, we heard about you special. Me and Whitney. That's not the regular drill at all. Too many comin in to take special notice of many." He paused. "Although I guess he he could, if he wanted to. I guess could, if he wanted to. I guess he he could take notice of just about anybody." could take notice of just about anybody."

Trashcan Man nodded.

"He can do magic," Lloyd said, his voice becoming slightly hoarse. "I seen it. I'd hate to be the people against him, you know?"

"Yes," Trashcan said. "I saw what happened to The Kid."

"What kid?"

"The guy I was with until we got into the mountains." He shuddered. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay, man. Here comes your soup. And Whitney put a burger on the side after all. You'll love it. The guy makes great burgers, but try not to puke, okay?"

"Okay."

"Me, I got places to go and people to see. If my old buddy Poke could see me now, he'd never believe it. I'm busier'n a one-legged man in an ass-kickin contest. Catch you later."

"Sure," Trashcan said, and then added, almost timidly: "Thanks. Thanks for everything."

"Don't thank me," me," Lloyd said amiably. "Thank Lloyd said amiably. "Thank him." him."

"I do," Trashcan Man said. "Every night." But he was talking to himself. Lloyd was already halfway down the lobby, talking with the man who had brought the soup and the hamburger. Trashcan Man watched them fondly until they were out of sight, and then he began to chow down, eating ravenously until almost everything was gone. He would have been fine if he hadn't looked down into the soup bowl. It was tomato soup, and it was the color of blood.

He pushed the bowl aside, his appetite suddenly gone. It was all very well for him to tell Lloyd Henreid he didn't want to talk about The Kid; it was quite another thing to stop thinking thinking about what had happened to him. about what had happened to him.

He walked over to the roulette wheel, sipping at the glass of milk that had come with his food. He gave the wheel an idle twist and dropped the little white marble into the dish. It rolled around the rim, then hit the slots below and began to racket back and forth. He thought about The Kid. He wondered if someone would come and show him which room was his. He thought about The Kid. He wondered if the ball would fetch up on a red number or a black one ... but mostly he thought about The Kid. The bouncing, jittering ball caught in one of the slots, this time for good. The wheel came to a stop. The ball was sitting under the green double zero.

House spin.

On the cloudless, eighty-degree day when they headed west from Golden directly into the Rockies along Interstate 70, The Kid had given up Coors in favor of a bottle of Rebel Yell whiskey. Two more bottles sat between the two of them on the driveshaft hump, each neatly packed into an empty cardboard milk carton so the bottles wouldn't roll around and break. The Kid would nip at the bottle, chase the nip with a swallow of Pepsi-Cola, and then holler hot-damn! hot-damn! or or yahoo! yahoo! or or sex-machine! sex-machine! at the top of his lungs. He remarked several times that he would at the top of his lungs. He remarked several times that he would piss piss Rebel Yell if he could. He asked Trashcan Man if he believed that happy crappy. Trashcan Man, pale with fright and still hung over from his three beers of the night before, said he did. Rebel Yell if he could. He asked Trashcan Man if he believed that happy crappy. Trashcan Man, pale with fright and still hung over from his three beers of the night before, said he did.