volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

cry. His ears fill with Rick’s cackle, his brain fills with the image
of falling, falling like the dude in Vertigo, the fake scenery behind
him spinning, his arms and legs flung out, a surprised look on his
bland face. But that dude knew damn well the Director would
yell cut and he could go home. After all, he was the star, and
couldn’t die. After all, it was only a movie.
But this. This is for real.
Long, red fingernails tap.
Roy climbs to his feet. His eyes are wiped dry by the wind.
He roars as he lunges forward. His long legs drive him to where
his Brother the Asshole stands, a look of surprise on his ferret
face. Roy’s hands close around his neck. Rick might be meaner,
but Roy is stronger. They wrestle. Rick shouts stop! please stop!
The platform careens wildly—bang bang—swings side-to-side
stop! please stop! The ropes from which it depends judder as if
plucked.
bleepbleep
A smooth, pearly, redtipped hand snaps up the receiver. Her
long, red, lustrous hair smells of lost Amazonian flowers. Her
eyes are filled with a blue God no longer makes. Her lips,
painted ruby red, are swollen with sensitive nerves, each one
linked directly to the pleasure center of her brain. Her mouth
is filled with porcelain teeth, her shoulders square and strong,
behind which, if she but turned, she would see the agon of
brothers, Cain and Able of the Window Washing World, one
with a death grip on the other.
An enraged Roy lifts his brother bodily off the platform.
Blue, blue sky.
Rick’s dirty New Balances leave the expanded metal surface.
Roy lifts higher and higher. Rick’s hands clutch the air, frantic to
find some purchase, something to grab onto, but there is nothing
except the cold metal rail, and his fingers only brush this as Roy
lifts higher and higher—then hurtles him into space.
bleep
The phone again. Pesky thing. With the tiniest, irritated
frown, the redhead lifts the receiver and brings it to her alabaster
ear.
ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY 2