“Yes. Yes I would.”

She smiled, that round face beaming, damn near glowing. Frank almost squinted from the dazzling brightness and he couldn’t help but grin back.

“Good.” She tried to tame her smile, pressing her lips together, but the dimples in her cheeks gave it away. “Tonight. At six. Okay?”

“I’ll be there.”

“I’ll be waiting.” And with that, Annie and Petunia left. Frank watched Annie’s rolling ass, barely contained in her cutoff jean shorts, as she headed across the lawn. Petunia padded happily alongside the strong brown legs. They walked down the middle of the empty street, silhouetted from streetlight to streetlight, until finally slipping into the darkness.

* * * * *

The hospital was empty and hollow without Petunia following him around. Frank went in and talked to the pound dogs for a while, but it wasn’t the same. The immediate, insane barking kickstarted his hangover, hammering a throbbing headache to his skull with blunt nails. The big cats just stared him down with careful, precise eyes. They didn’t hiss or snarl anymore. How was it, he wondered, he could understand exactly what the cats were thinking as they watched him, but he had absolutely no idea what the hell was going through Annie’s mind when she invited him to dinner.

Frank took a hot shower and scrubbed himself raw. He fell onto his cot, but couldn’t sleep. As the storeroom’s walls and pallets took shape in the gray morning light, he thought of her dimples as she tried not to let the smile get away from her. Her belly. Those brown legs. That ass.

* * * * *

He stopped pretending to sleep when the phone rang at noon. It was Sturm. “We’re having a meeting at my place. Appreciate it if you were there.”

“Yeah, sure, of course.” Frank panicked, thinking of his date with Annie at six. “When?”

“Be here in an hour. I can have one of the boys pick you up, if you’d rather not have that car out and about.” Frank had hidden the long black car in the barn, in a large empty space next to the rhino.

“No, that’ll be okay. Better for it, turn the engine over once in a while. How you feelin’?”

“Never felt better in my life. See you in an hour.” Sturm hung up.

* * * * *

Frank fed the animals and himself. He took another shower in case he didn’t have a chance before six, then drove out to Sturm’s ranch. Jack, Pine, and Chuck were already there, sitting on the front steps, yanking off their cowboy boots. Inside, Sturm had the air conditioning going full blast. Frank’s sweat instantly froze to his skin and everyone left damp footprints on the smooth wood as they walked through the house in their socks.

Sturm sat in one of the kitchen chairs while Theo carried the rest into the office. Frank peeled the medical tape off Sturm’s chest and started to say, “Good thing you don’t have much hair,” but caught himself just in time. The wounds were clean and showed no sign of infection. Frank applied fresh bandages and everyone moved into the office.

They clustered around the desk. Frank was surprised to see a laptop; it looked out of place in the farmhouse, almost anachronistic, like John Wayne drawing a laser gun out of his holster. Sturm explained, “While all of us have been sleeping, Theo’s been busy.” He sounded proud, but almost relieved, as if his son had finally given him a reason to be proud. He nodded at the laptop. “Theo?”

Theo came forward, suddenly shy and hesitant, his movements the only sound in the muffled quiet of the book-filled room. He dragged his forefinger across the mouse pad and attacked the keyboard like a puppy going after a frog.

An image of the twin towers appeared, morning in New York, and the first plane came streaking out the sky from the right side of the screen and burrowed into one of the buildings. A title appeared above the towers, stark black. “DEATH LIVES IN US ALL-The Most Brutal Site on the Net.” A menu faded in on the left side of the screen. “Videos.” “Photos.” “Links.”

“Show ’em everything,” Sturm said. “It’ll curl your toes and pucker your assholes, boys.”

Theo clicked “Videos.” Another list came up, and Theo started at the top. The twin towers crumpled in fire and dust and smoke.

A paunchy, middle-aged guy in a suit stood behind a table in a nondescript meeting room, handing out manila envelopes. He was sweating and pale, trembling like he had stomach flu. “This was all be explained in a minute—moment,” he stuttered. His voice matched the color of his skin, cottage cheese that had been left out in the sun. It appeared to be some kind of last-minute press conference, but the camera angle didn’t show anyone else. Finally, he reached the last manila envelope and pulled a large revolver from it.

There were panicked shouts, falling chairs. Someone shouted, “Wait!” and there was another hoarse, quick voice, “Don’t!”

The man waved the gun around with a shaking hand and sputtered, “Please. Please, don’t come any closer. Someone—someone could get hurt with this.” And then, anxious to get it over with, he put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Almost too fast to follow, part of his skull hit the wall behind him and he dropped like a cinderblock off an overpass. The camera tilted down, finding the man slumped against the wall. Blood suddenly erupted from his nose and mouth as if someone had quickly cranked on a faucet. His eyes were still open, sad and unblinking. The image went black.

“Jesus humping Christ. Ain’t never.” Chuck breathed. “Holy fucking shit. Shit!” Frank couldn’t tell if Chuck was disgusted or excited.

That was just the beginning. The images were thick with death. They watched machete beheadings. Soccer riots. Helicopter disasters. Racetrack explosions that sent burning chunks of the cars into the crowds. Police chases. Bulls goring matadors; the clowns laughed like hell at those. Shootouts. Hot air balloon mishaps. An abortion, up close and personal.

The clowns acted as if they were watching porn, calling out in ecstasy “Oh fuck YES!” when a cop stepped in front of a semi on a busy freeway and disappeared, leaving only the faintest red mist behind. One poor sonofabitch got sucked through a jumbo jet engine. People jumped out of a burning high rise in India and bounced when they hit the concrete. A mob in Africa literally tore a man apart with long knives and their bare hands.

They hit a stretch of animal attacks. Some misguided dipshit in Taiwan climbed over a zoo fence and tried to bless a couple of lions. He’d nearly completed the sign of the cross when one of the lions casually flicked a paw out and sent the guy spinning to the ground, probably wondering why his God had abandoned him. Another Asian guy, Frank couldn’t tell what country it was, let his concentration falter for just a second, and the nine-foot alligator clamped down on his arm and just rolled and rolled and rolled, twisting that arm like a wet towel until it finally came off, right above the elbow. Frank wasn’t the only one that flinched.

One genius tried to brand a horse. The horse gave a kind of squeezing flex, then, the next instant, the guy was gone as if he’d never been born. The website showed it again in slow motion. The horse kicked the dumb sonofabitch square in the chest and he flew backwards out of the frame, branding iron spinning in midair. Even Frank got to laughing at that one. But he had to fight not to tremble. Sturm had the temperature down in the sixties, and to Frank, who had stepped out of the 107-degree heat, it felt like he’d just parachuted into the Antarctic in his underwear.

The cool air just made the clowns scratch a lot.

Frank wished he had his flask.

It was already three o’clock.

After the videos, Theo clicked through the collection of still images, mostly black and white crime scene photos. Shotgun suicides. Scissor stabbings. Mob hits. Then black screens with white words; jokes like “What’s the difference between a truckload of bowling balls and a truckload of dead babies?” The next image was an infant girl in a white hospital shirt and nothing else impaled on a wrought iron fence with the text underneath. “You can unload one with a pitchfork.”