An Angry Red Review of The Donut Legion by Joe R. Lansdale

East Texas’s dark pine trees swayed, carving lines in the dusty slivers of moonlight as Joe squeezed the varnished wood handle. He put both feet on the top lip of the spade and jumped. The tool cut through sandy loam and into the red subsoil. The earth resisted, then gave, and the steel penetrated. He rocked the blade to and fro and an angry red gash came. The dirt was heavy and damp and put off a sweet smell. He placed the load to the side of the gash.

His partner, Morefield, threw a scoop over his left shoulder.

Joe frowned. “Keep it close. We need to fill this in when we’re done.”

“Right, sorry.” Morefield stepped back and lit a Lucky Strike.

“Put that out,” Joe said.

“Why?”

“We don’t need anyone seeing the cherry, or smelling the smoke, or—even worse—you accidentally leave the butt, and your DNA is here.”

“Smart.”

“I write about killing. I’ve picked up some information along the way.”

Morefield put the cigarette in the hole and ground it down with his heel. “Why didn’t you come to the bar last night?”

Joe clenched his jaw, grabbed the butt, and put it in his right hip pocket. “I was editing.”

“You and your stupid books. You missed a good game.”

“Books are a lot cheaper than snorting Peruvian marching powder and gambling.”

“Maybe, but which is more fun? I earn cash selling that powder.”

“And how much have you lost with your bets?”

Morefield chuckled. “Enough that it’d be a problem—if my bookie wasn’t my brother-in-law.”

“That only goes so far. The wife getting salty about it?”

“Nah, Betty Lou is sweet, and not much else.”

Joe scooped. “Isn’t she some type of accountant?”

“She can’t even count to ten with mittens on. She’s Gus’s assistant over at the State Farm.”

“Gus is good people.” Joe set the dirt to the side. “So, she’s smart with insurance and such?”

“She’s not. What’s the story you’re working on?”

“I call it The Donut Legion.”

“Fancy name.”

“It’s about a lady who disappears in east Texas. Her ex, a private-eye turned writer, starts looking for her. Turns out she’s mixed up with some cult.”

Morefield spit into the hole. “Your Aunt moved to Australia and got in with a cult, right?”

“She did. She needed something to fill a Percocet-sized hole.”

“What was the cult’s deal?”

“They call themselves Universal Medicine, UniMed for short. Their leader claims he is Leonardo Da Vinci reincarnated and can heal women through breast massages. He charges sixty bucks per massage.”

Morefield slapped his thigh. “That’s my kind of religion. Maybe I should join up.”

“I don’t image the leader’s looking to share his massage duties.”

“Probably not. Your donut book any good?”

“You should read it.”

“I thought you never gave away your books until they were all the way done?”

“Nope, but after this, you come over and I’ll print you out a copy.”

“Thanks. I just hope I can find the time with all my other book-reading.”

Joe took out a green bandana and wiped his face. “Funny.”

“On account of I might not have time, why don’t you just tell me about it, while we dig.”

“All right. In East Texas, a lady disappears, probably on account of the cult. Her ex and his brother and a whole crew of misfits go looking for her. Things go from bad, to really bad, to absolute shit.”

“Husbands and wives—it always seems to end up that way.” Morefield leaned on his shovel, huffing, face slick. His fat belly rose and fell.

“The story has a crazy monkey executing people and spaceships and there is a plan to fly guns to another planet and battle aliens to prevent the end of the world.”

“Stories don’t often have that.”

“They do not.”

“I even threw in a pretty girl who likes a good time between the sheets.”

“Sounds like my kind of reading.”

“You always liked smut on the page.”

Morefield laughed. “I like it in person as well.”

“Betty Lou ever find out about the whoring in Houston?” Joe asked.

“Nope, I can get away with just about anything. Easy to put one past her.”

“You got her figured out.”

“I do. I’m the one in control.”

“For sure.” Joe looked down. The hole was about five feet deep. “Think we’re good.”

“Reckon so. Let’s go snatch that piece of shit.”

“You sure? He’s family, and you did place the bets.”

“Family? Hell, I don’t even like my wife. What’s her brother to me?”

“Fair enough.”

Morefield turned and stepped over the hole.

As his left boot landed on the far side, Joe swung his spade. The impact sounded like a gong.

Morefield dropped, screaming, holding his face.

“What are you—”

Joe put both feet on the top lip of the spade and jumped. The tool impacted the skull. The bone resisted, then gave, and the steel penetrated. He rocked the blade to and fro and an angry red gash came. The wound was damp and put off a metallic smell.

He texted Morefield’s widow on the encrypted app. “It’s done. What’s my cut of the insurance payout?”

Postscript Per Mr. Lansdale’s Publicist:

This story shown above is, obviously, a work of fiction. Mr. Lansdale is not a murderer. He is not the “Joe” featured in this story.

Post-postscript per the story’s writer (J.B.)

That publicist’s statement sounds like something a person covering up a murder would say.