They Call Us Monsters

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

12:00 AMJoe pulled over at a wide spot in the road and bent sideways to reach for his logbook. After updating his log, it wuld be time to call dispatch with his Twelve O’clock and All’s Well. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the radio’s speakers gave a high-pitched squeal, like feedback.

“Holy Hell!” He snatched up the logbook, gave the radio’s glowing display a filthy look, and twisted the volume dial with his free hand.

He was reaching for the tuner dial when he registered that the static was gone, replaced by a flat, but expectant, silence. He froze, confused, then his eyes caught the time display. 11:59 glowed a fuzzy green, blinked, and became 12:00.

Joe smiled as the sound of an electric guitar broke the silence, a slow and grinding heavy metal riff followed by pounding bass and the orgasmic groaning of a woman.

Bumper music.

1200 AM was not just the frequency, it seemed.

Though the production sounded high quality, Joe thought it must be a ham radio broadcast. Somehow, Joe supposed, the broadcaster had managed to pirate the unused frequency. He didn’t think it was legal for ham operators to broadcast on public frequencies.

The disc jockey’s first line of banter cemented his suspicion to a certainty.

“Good morning to all you sick bastards out there. I’m Andy Crow with the Dirty Crow radio network, and this is 1200 AM Live, live at 12:00 AM!” The man’s voice was high and sharp, like no DJ Joe had ever heard, but he spoke his lines like a seasoned pro. “Here’s a great big Dirty Crow welcome for all you newbies, a big thanks to Little Lisa Ray for helping to spread the word, and a big suck my d**k to all the scuttling little roaches at the FCC. Catch me if you can, motherfuckers!”

Joe was surprised into laughter, but also a little shocked. Vulgarity was nothing new to him, and it had never particularly bothered him, but he was not used to hearing such language over public airwaves.

A second, slightly deeper voice joined in as the bumper music faded.

“Holy Mary Mother of f**k! Charles Greene here, making radio history while you sit around with your peckers in your hands.”

Joe laughed harder as a comic jumble of slapstick sound effects filled the cab of his patrol car –arooogahs and boy-oy-oings, the skid and bang of a crashing car, a prodding sound, followed by an oooff! straight from the Three Stooges archives.

“What time is it?” Andy Crow shouted.

Charles Greene responded, his voice strained and rough. “Half past a monkey’s ass, a quarter to his balls?”

The grating blat of a game show buzzer sounded.

“Wrong,” Crow said.

“So what f*****g time is it?” Greene again.

As if on cue, which Joe supposed it was, a chorus of voices called out “It’s time for What’s That Sound!”

Ding-ding-ding-ding!

“Yes, it’s time for the old 1200 AM Live favorite, What’s That Sound, where the members of our captive audience take turns guessing at the mystery sound. The winner gets Dirty Crow radio’s spotlight treatment and will make their confession in the first hour of the show, before the listening audience starts to lose their heads.”

Joe had been so focused on the program that he’d remained parked at the side of Railroad Avenue.

“Dispatch to Carter. You there, Joe?” Bailey Security’s dispatch startled him out of his grinning daze.

“Pestering b***h,” he said, turning the volume knob down and picking up his two-way. Then, straining for a polite tone, “Sorry, got sidetracked.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “Anything new happen?”

“Naw,” Joe said, anxious to be finished with the conversation so he could turn this interesting new show back up. “Some graffiti on the underpass, but I didn’t see who did it. That’s all.”

No immediate response from her end, so Joe tossed his two-way onto the passenger seat and cranked the volume before opening the logbook.

Crow and Greene’s vulgar banter had ceased, and there was a slobbering, sloppy sound coming from the radio.

Joe’s jaw dropped.

“There it is, folks! The 1200 AM Live Mystery Sound.”

Sounds like f*****g, Joe thought, and his amusement returned. Now this is what radio should be like!

“That’s finger banging,” a man from the captive audience volunteered.

The buzzer blatted again.

“Close, but no dice,” Crow shouted. “Next.”

“Was it a queef?” someone else asked.

“You stupid bastard,” Crow said, sounding genuinely angry. “Last night’s sound was a queef.”

“Security,” Greene shouted. “Get that stupid motherfucker outa’ here.”

Shouted protests in the background, some kind of minor scuffle that had to have been more canned audio effects, like the mystery sound itself.

“Listen, folks,” Crow cut in, sounding supremely annoyed, “this is a pretty much anything goes show, but there are two simple things you need to remember if you want to be a guest. Only two!” He shouted the last word, startling Joe.

Dirty Crow’s got a temper, Joe thought, scribbling his initials in the log and flipping it closed. If it’s an act, it’s a good one.

“No call-ins,” Greene said in a deadpan tone. “We don’t give out our number, so don’t go f*****g looking for it. You want on the air, you have to find us.”

“And for f**k’s sake,” Crow cut in, “pay attention! That’s all we ask!”

Nope, not an act. All good humor had dropped from Crow’s voice. The hard edge in his voice was true rage.

Joe checked Railroad Avenue to make sure it was clear before pulling out and drove. He checked the road to Crack Town in his rear-view. Still deserted.

“Blowjob,” a woman from the audience volunteered. “Sounds like a blowjob to me.”

Ding-ding-ding-ding!

“And we have a winner,” Crow shouted.

“Not surprised in the least, if I may say so,” Greene offered. “You strike me as a woman familiar with that sound.”

“That is in fact the sound of Mr. Greene having his c**k gobbled as we speak. Again, thanks to Little Lisa Ray for her help.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Greene volunteered. “Lisa is the best intern ever!”

There were more of the slobbery, sucking sounds, then a wet smack and a giggling voice that made Joe jump in alarm.

“It’s all about dedication,” Lisa said, and to Joe she sounded just like the girl he’d had by the bridge underpass. She giggled again and went back to her intern’s duties with an enthusiastic slurping sound.

A guilty panic froze Joe’s mind for a moment, and he was certain that God, or karma, had placed that little crackhead in the studio to rat him out, to punish him for f*****g up the second chance he’d been given. Then Joe passed the bridge abutment again, saw the message spray-painted there, and the panic hand twisting his stomach loosened. He relaxed with the realization that karma, God, or coincidence had nothing to do with that girl being in 1200 AM Live’s studio, and with the certainty that if she was going to rat him out, she would have done it at once.

Well, maybe not a certainty, but a probability. Most likely, she didn’t even remember, and even if she did, she hadn’t seen his face or even his car as far as he knew.

I was stupid, he thought. I was careless. Joe didn’t regret what he’d done to her, not even for a moment, only that he’d been careless enough to let her walk away.

He did his best to put her out of his mind as he drove down Railroad Avenue, and 1200 AM Live continued.

The residue of Joe’s fear melted away quickly as the show continued, and he got a sense of what the show was about. 1200 AM Live, Dirty Crow Radio, was a pornographic crossing of the creative vulgarity of Howard Stern or Don and Mike, and the Advice Shows with hosts who may or may not have the credentials they claimed, shows that were more dirty laundry confessionals than advice.

Except there were no call-ins, which made sense since Misters Crow and Greene were probably breaking more laws than even they knew. He wondered where they broadcasted from, and decided their studio was likely mobile. He didn’t know how, but he imagined the Feds had ways of tracking down airwave pirates.

The woman who had won What’s That Sound told her story, made her confession, with many interruptions by the hosts, who never outright mocked her, but often flirted on the edges of mockery. It was a great yet pathetic story of s*x addiction. The woman had s*x with everyone. She had s*x with her husband’s friends, with her co-workers, with men she met over the internet, with strangers she met walking in the park.

Though entertaining, it was stuff he’d heard before on the Shock Jock shows he could tune into in bigger and better cities. It wasn’t until after the interview that it got really interesting.

“Sometimes I really wish this was a picture show,” Crow said with a raucous titter. “Mr. Greene is on what you might call a fact checking mission.”

“Yes indeed! So many shows these days neglect to do the necessary research, but we here at 1200 AM Live – Dirty Crow Radio, we take our calling seriously.”

“The subject has now stripped and assumed the position. Tell us Mr. Greene, what’s her clam like?”

“Not bad,” Greene said. “Clean shaven, a pleasing shade of pink. Plenty of mileage but still in good condition.”

“So, what’s the verdict?” Crow asked.

“Well used, but not abused.” Greene said.

“So, we know she can use it, but I’m still not entirely convinced. The big question is how well she can use it. Get the mic down there.”

“Well f**k me,” Joe said in pure amazement at the sound of a zipper. The zipper sound was followed by a grunt and groan of mingled pleasure and pain, then a series of wet slaps, and the occasional loud whack as Greene slapped her ass.

“Move it around! Don’t just lay there. Work with me!”

“Now that is what I call job satisfaction,” Crow commented.

“If you can’t enjoy your work,” Greene said, now puffing with exertion, “you might as well give it up.”

The wet slap-slap-slap grew in tempo, and the woman’s steady grunts and moans became wheezy little screams.

“I think Mr. Greene is about to dump his junk,” Crow commented. “Either that, or he’s put on a Goofy mask.”

Driving his route on Railroad Avenue, but no longer paying the slightest attention to anything but the radio, Joe barked laughter.

With a last loud smack of sweaty genitals, Greene roared his pleasure. “f**k yeah!”

The woman shrieked, a sound that might have indicated extreme pleasure, mortal agony, or both at once.

Then she was silent.

After a few moments, Greene spoke again.

“Well, honestly she was a bit of a dead f**k, but even a dead f**k is better than no f**k at all.”