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This short story features characters from my novels
Trailer Park Trash & Vampires and Dirty Southside Jam |
One Night at the Titty Bar (Explicit Content)
by James Wayland
It was a hot and
humid night, the kind that some might call muggy and others might call
miserable. The ones who pegged it as
miserable were the ones to ask a question of if an honest answer was
desired. Mosquitos were hard at work,
doing their best to make the soggy heat and the damp funk a bit more
unbearable. Wet clothes clung to flesh
while faces dripped sweat, but none of this was uncommon for Tallahassee in the
burning heart of summer. Those who had
endured some of the worst summers on record here wouldn’t have been impressed
at all, but a boy from Bogut might think that he had stumbled into the seventh
circle of hell.
Speaking of which,
Billie Boyd, better known as Blue, was trying hard not to spray the interior of
Bama’s prized ‘67 Nova with the contents of his stomach, but that had precious
little to do with the heat. No, the heat
hadn’t made him queasy, but it damn sure wasn’t helping with the situation and
Blue was thinking that he was probably going to lose this fight before the
night was over. There would be puke, and
Blue really hated puking.
His long hair was
held back with a pink bandana and his eyes were bloodshot. There were dark circles beneath those eyes
and his weary gaze aged him beyond his years.
His clothes weren’t doing much better.
Blue’s tropical shirt might have made Magnum P.I. proud when Tom Selleck
was in his prime, but it was now a relic.
It benefitted some when compared to the pair of cutoff jean shorts laced
with holes and stains hanging low on Blue’s waist. The stoner lurched forward, clamping a hand
over his face to stop the vomit, but it was only a dry-heave.
Bama eyed him with
some concern.
The big bastard
was clad in a little tank-top, but the heat hadn’t stopped him from wearing his
leather pants. Per his custom, Bama had
enough gold on to turn a rapper’s head, and he was dressed entirely in black. Bama gave the wheel a spin, sliding his Nova
into the parking lot. The car was a
vision in cherry red, a true classic that Bama loved more than he could ever
love any person.
Neon lights washed
over them, reflecting a garish scene on the purring Chevy’s waxed hood and
gleaming windshield. The bar’s sign
featured a naked woman twirling a lasso over her head, her proud breasts
boasting enormous green dollar signs for nipples. This garish pink, blue, and green monument to
stripping only added to Blue’s discomfort.
He was not a fan of this sort of joint, but Bama practically lived at
places like this.
Strip clubs
weren’t all bad, but Blue preferred the nicer establishments where he didn’t
find himself dwelling on germs and disease.
When he was surrounded by naked women and he couldn’t think of anything
but hand sanitizer, well then, what exactly was the point? He wouldn’t mind jumping some of the
strippers at the classy clubs, but they weren’t dishing it out, and the dirty
strumpets who were ready to go at these tawdry affairs weren’t getting anywhere
near Blue’s jewels. That was just the
nature of the game. Spending more for
less gave him peace of mind. Some say a
single battle with scabies can change the way a man thinks, and two can scar
him for life.
Occasionally, Bama
took him someplace nice, but more often than not they found one of these tawdry
places out in the boonies. If Blue had
to take a dump at some point, he was certain to use enough toilet paper to line
the walls in his efforts to cover the seat.
It was either that or hover, and he had learned that drunk men don’t
hover well.
“You all right?” Bama wondered.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You look like
you’re pondering some heavy shit over there.”
“Nah.”
Bama thought this
over for a moment while massaging the steering wheel with his big mitts and
squinting. “What? You don’t want to talk about it?”
“I said I’m fine.”
The big man
shrugged.
Blue was learning
a lot about the hard bastard sitting beside him, a brute who could be one mean
son of a bitch. Yet Bama was capable of
many things, and for the most part he was a genuinely likable fellow. He was warm and he could be surprisingly
generous. It was easy to forget that he
could sink to deplorable lows with ease, just like he was shifting gears in his
beloved car.
Bama scared Blue
because the wiry stoner knew the big man could commit any crime and spend the
night at the bar without so much as a twinge of remorse. He could go places that scared the fuck out of
Blue and it didn’t bother the big mother.
It didn’t bother that fucker not one iota. That was frightening.
Of course, that
wasn’t all Blue was figuring out, he was also learning that he himself wasn’t
cut out for this sort of life.
Truthfully, that was no surprise, and it didn’t count for much, seeing
as how he had no way out that didn’t involve an anonymous grave at sea.
It was a damn
shame.
He hadn’t asked
for any of this, he had stumbled headlong into the life. He had put his toes in the muck, thinking he
would be able to wash it off, but it didn’t work like that. He had been consumed by it, and ever since he
took the money and his first lonely step down this wicked path, his luck had
soured. He had suffered one bad break
after another, and the time had come when he clearly felt that he was on the
cusp of execution. Yes, he was in a bind
when he took up with the big madman who was now parking his beloved Nova, but
sometimes it seemed that the noose had actually grown tighter during the last
several months.
Bama checked his
reflection in the mirror, using both hands to tidy up his unruly black
mane. “Lookin’ good, baby,” he purred.
The big man
chuckled as he exited the sleek vehicle, pausing long enough to run his hand
across the Nova’s smooth finish. “This
is my kind of night,” he said as he started forward, his boots echoing on the
asphalt. He was obviously feeling
it. That was one of Bama’s gifts. The man could always find his groove
quickly. “Care to drown your sorrows,
amigo?”
Blue had no choice
but to follow, so he did.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Biscuits and
gravy.”
The big man
stopped, frowning. “What the fuck does
that mean?”
“It means I’m just
fine and dandy,” Blue answered, offering up a shit-eating grin.
“Biscuits and gravy. That’s fucking retarded.”
The two men
started walking again.
Bama put his arm
around Blue’s shoulder, pulling him close.
“Listen up, kid, ditch the shit.
Ain’t nobody got time for that.
We’re going to have a good time here.
This is a cool joint. Lighten up,
my man, you know, live a little bit.”
“Sure thing,” Blue
mumbled.
“I’m serious. There’s a girl who works here, Blue, her name
is Cindy, and she has the goods, my friend.
She has the goods like no other broad you could imagine. I’m telling you, this woman is
unbelievable. Smokin’ hot! If she’s out there working the floor, you
have to get a lap-dance from her. I
demand it. Unbelievable, this chick is,
just amazing. And if she likes you,
she’ll bite your fucking cock right through your pants.” Bama arched his eyebrows.
“That’s just what
I look for in a woman.”
The big man
laughed, shoving Blue away. “Sometimes
you can be a real asshole, you know that?”
For an instant,
Blue thought the moment had arrived, and he braced himself, knowing that he was
about to throw up. The moment passed,
and Blue almost managed to grin. “Yeah,
well I ain’t the only one here with a card to that club,” he said at last.
“Shit. I’m not an asshole, Blue. I’m the big winner.”
Four beers later,
Blue was definitely in a better mood, and he was no longer feeling the urge to
vomit. He still felt a little off, but
he was fighting through it. What else
was there to do?
He was ready for
another frosty, but he wasn’t keeping pace with Bama. The big guy was truly in his element
surrounded by booze and cheap broads, rubbing shoulders with hoods and
swindlers who enjoyed the life just as much as the killer in black. He hit every girl who passed with a line, an
insult, or a little pat on the rump. He
gave every man who dared to give him a second glance an earful. Basically, he was the baddest man in the building
and he knew it, so he behaved as such.
Blue drifted in
his wake, looking down when crooks eyed him with disdain or approached as
friends. He made nice with the ladies
(this wasn’t the appropriate term for women who worked at this dump, but Blue
was raised proper) and he didn’t dare put his hands on any of them. He was a country boy at heart, but he wasn’t
just being a gentleman. He was thinking
about his personal hygiene as much as anything else.
A wisp of a girl
with a haunted gaze and a colony of fever blisters just below her nostril told
him that she would “party down” with him for sixty dollars. He told her that he wasn’t feeling all that
hot, which was the truth, and even added a “maybe some other time” with no real
effort to be convincing. She uttered a
bored goodbye and set off in search of another mark.
The music was
loud, an aggressive thump that was devoid of style or grace. It seemed appropriate for the girls gyrating
on the stage, but the combination of the electronic rumble and the strobe
lighting made Blue queasy all over again.
He closed his eyes
and saw that poor bastard they had deep-sixed this afternoon, unable to shrug
off the frumpy little guy’s pleading eyes as he begged them to let him go,
going on and on about his wife and his little girl. Blue wanted to forget all about it; he didn’t
want to keep picturing Bama humming nonchalantly as he trussed the crying man
up and dumped him overboard with a cement block for company, but he couldn’t
help it. Blue was having a hard time
tearing his thoughts away from that grim scene, and he kept coming back to that
one little detail that unnerved him more than anything else. Bama had hummed. He had hummed while the poor guy begged. He had hummed the whole time. He had clapped Blue on the shoulder when it
was finished, still humming, and he had hummed while Blue sat mute during the
return trip to shore.
He didn’t know if
he was going to be able to drink it away this time, and he knew he wasn’t cut
out for this kind of life, but he didn’t have any choice. Maybe he would keep faking it until he was no
different from the savage killer who had taken him under his wing, if such a
thing was possible. Maybe he was damning
himself to hell with every second that passed.
Maybe he was
already there.
“There she is,”
Bama said, taking him by the arm and directing his attention toward an absolute
beauty with short blonde hair that appeared white under the bright lights. Her body was a marvel in the flesh, her face
was fit for an angel, and she moved with a sense of purpose. Her sure gaze suggested that she owned the
men she was dancing for, and her charisma was impossible to ignore.
Well, maybe it was
possible to let the grim scene from this afternoon go. For a little bit, at least. “Holy shit.”
Bama winked at
him. “That’s what I’m talking
about. She’s hotter than two mice
fucking in a furnace on the sun.”
Blue had to admit
that the woman was a particularly unique specimen. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her. Cindy’s shapely hips and her delicate naval
made his heart race, and her feline power was only enhanced by her wanton gaze
and the tantalizing sheen of sweat glistening on her taut skin as she swayed
before him. She was a woman who knew
just what she was capable of, and she appeared capable of damn near
anything.
Blue wiped his
chin to make sure that he wasn’t drooling.
Her eyes found him
and she delicately chewed her bottom lip.
Blue instantly fell deeper under her spell. She was a goddess.
“Save me,” he
pleaded.
Two
hours later Blue was definitely drunk, and he was definitely having a good
time. He was no longer dwelling on the
dead man and the wet grave that poor bastard had inherited. Blue felt great, and for the time being, he
liked this place—and perhaps even this life—almost as much as Bama did.
He
had already bought two lapdances from Cindy and he was eagerly awaiting a
third. She had indeed bitten his cock
through his pants, and he had enjoyed it.
The second time she danced for him, she had also draped her legs over
his shoulders, slid her pink thong aside, and fingered herself inches from his
face. Her shiny stiletto heels had pressed
against his back while her spiky hair had poked his groin as she deftly arched
backward, her slender form growing taut as she contorted her luscious body and
her finger plundered her wet slit, her strong right hand gripping his thigh for
support.
Then she had turned
and slid to the floor with all the grace of a serpent, giving him a sublime view
of her gorgeous behind that he would remember for the rest of his life. After that, she stood and leaned over him, pressing
her breasts against his face. Her
nipples were so hard they were like pink pebbles adorning those sublime mounds,
and Blue actually found himself growing faint as she eased into his lap once
more. Perhaps she giggled as she ground
her pelvis against him--he was feeling too warm and fuzzy to know or care.
Two other girls
had approached him as Cindy had made her rounds, and while he had paid one of
them for a dance, it had been a poor substitute for the work of the goddess who
had enchanted him.
Yes, Bama had been
right about Cindy, that much was certain.
The woman was an angel who had descended from heaven and taken a job at
one of the sleaziest clubs in Florida.
She had apparently come to alleviate all of his concerns with her
heavenly face, incredible figure, and her amazing skills, and thus far the
mission had been a stunning success. She
was perhaps the finest finger-banging agent of the lord he had ever happened
upon.
“Fuckin’ A,” he
said to anyone who was listening.
Even as he
reflected on her considerable prowess, she approached him again, smiling, her
sultry gaze immobilizing him. His dick
got hard as soon as she placed her hand on his shoulder. “I like you,” she said.
“I like you too.”
She laughed. “You’re cute.”
“You’re cuter.”
“They say the
third time is the charm.”
“I’m all yours,”
Blue answered, awash in a sea of pure bliss.
Perhaps this life had never been better.
She leaned in
closer and nibbled his ear just as someone screamed from somewhere within the
club. This sudden interruption was no
playful shout or raucous catcall either, it was a bloodcurdling howl. Cindy paused as another wretched shriek cut
through the thumping club music and the unruly murmur of conversation. Blue shoved the heavenly stripper aside, his
blood turning cold. A rush of fear every
bit as massive as a roaring wave crashed into him even as he rose, his mouth
hanging agape.
There was another
cry, this one a pitiful moan, and now just about everyone was taking notice, scanning
the torrid scene for any potential threat.
There came a final pitiful whelp and a gangly man with a long beard came
stumbling out of one of the private rooms.
The man’s face was
wet with blood and his eyes were fiery pits of malice. He was stumbling like a drunk, caught in the
grip of a strange euphoria, but he quickly regained his composure, eying those
who gawked at him with disdain.
A
stout bald man with a multitude of tattoos and an impish whore in a flimsy gown
who must have been companions rushed to join the man with blood dripping from
his tangled beard. Now several people
were screaming and some were already shoving their way through the crowd of
onlookers transfixed by the unlikely scene playing out right before their very
eyes.
Even as a bulky
bouncer with a face like a pitbull stormed through that impromptu gathering,
demanding an explanation for the outburst, Blue watched the outlandish trio led
by the man with the dripping beard confer.
He saw the man with the bloody beard’s eyes flicker like a flame and he
felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
“What’s going
on?’ Cindy asked, gripping his arm.
He pulled away. She tried to cling to him and Blue shrugged
her off. “Get out of here,” he said.
“Why?” Her power had evaporated in the face of her
terror. Whereas she had owned this space
only minutes before, now she was like a frightened animal looking for comfort
and reassurance. She looked older, and
weaker, and Blue suddenly felt sorry for her.
Surely she wanted more from this life, but there was no time for that
now.
“Get out of here,” Blue hissed.
He
was drunk and he had always been paranoid, but he had also been in his fair
share of scrapes, and he was quick to recognize trouble. This was trouble of the highest order.
He
looked for Bama and saw the killer in black making his way back from the bar
toting a couple of mugs. He was watching
the crowd that was inevitably gathering around the bouncer and the three
weirdos, but hotshot that he was, Bama was still going about his business in
his usual nonchalant manner. He didn’t
believe there was anyone here who posed a threat to him.
“What
the fuck is going on here?” The big
bouncer with the pitbull face yelled, his beefy chest swelling as he confronted
the curious trio. As the onlookers
closed in, Blue could no longer see past the strippers and lowlifes who had
crowded together to watch the coming melee.
There was a loud
grunt followed by a vulgar tearing sound.
The crowd seemed to ripple as someone screamed, and then there was an
abundance of screaming and everyone was running. They fell over one another, writhing and
clawing, howling as they sought escape, blindly stampeding toward the exits.
Bama
dumped the mugs and grabbed Blue by the arm.
“Fuck me running,” the killer shouted.
“Let’s bail.”
“Damn
straight,” Blue readily agreed.
He
and Bama slipped into the mob running for the door, riding the surging tide of
hustling bodies. Even as they fought
their way forward, something hurtled above them and landed in their midst.
Now the people in
front of them were screaming as well. A
bloody body tumbled into Bama and he shrugged it off. The stripper in front of Blue, a tall redhead
with pale skin and a cobra tattooed on her lower back, abruptly turned and
plowed into him, causing both of them to fall.
“Get
off of me,” the stripper shouted, her knee finding Blue’s jaw as she scuttled
across him in her panic. Her heel jabbed
him in the throat as she surged to her feet and then she was gone.
Bama
was reaching for Blue and then there was a blur that could have been movement
and the big man was no longer there.
Blue turned his head and saw Bama’s bulk slamming into the wall ten feet
away. Bama came crashing down on the
floor with a groan and then Blue lost sight of the big mother as the unruly mob
pushed him forward.
Blue
was very drunk, but he thought he saw the man with the bloody beard grin at him
before a dark shape crashed into him at amazing speed, tackling him. He was slammed into the floor, the air
violently forced from his lungs, and Blue began to gag and cough as a dark
shape straddled him. Now he puked,
splattering the bloody shape that had assaulted him with an abundance of
vomit. There were so many screams
echoing off the walls now that it sounded like he had stumbled into a nightmare.
He
saw teeth in his face and Blue screamed, loosing himself in raw terror. At once the mayhem was shattered by a
thunderous gunshot. The banshee wail of
a chainsaw filled his ears and then Blue clearly saw the fiend straddling him,
a monster with gore dripping from his bearded chin. As this gruesome figure drew back, trying in
vain to shield his face as another shotgun blast rang out, Blue began to
tremble. The bloody lunatic was flung
away in a splash of crimson, rolling across the floor with a whimper.
Blue rotated his
head and beheld a tall man with a heavy mustache wielding a sawed-off
shotgun. This angry savior had a black headband
on and his eyes were shimmering pools of heat.
Stubble lined his chin and his lips were compressed into a thin line.
A lithe young man
sporting a manic grin bounded around the man with the mustache and this quick-footed
daredevil came racing toward Blue with a chainsaw rumbling in his grasp. Blue screamed as the young man easily leapt
over him and he turned to watch this warrior plunge his roaring chainsaw into
the writhing fiend who had tackled him only a moment before. The lithe man destroyed his adversary with a
few twists of his bucking weapon, a crimson mist staining him red as he deftly
beheaded the bastard. He kicked the
bloody head across the floor, chuckling when a stripper whose shapely legs had
been splashed with blood began to sob.
Then the impish
whore Blue had seen with the bearded man earlier slammed into the young man,
knocking his chainsaw from his grasp and sending him sprawling. People were still grappling toward the exits
and Blue was violently shoved aside, but he continued to watch as the little
woman advanced on her prey.
“Shit,” the lithe
warrior muttered, quickly drawing a knife from his belt, but she took hold of
his wrist as he tried to strike.
Blue sensed
movement from behind, and even as his head swiveled in that direction, the tall
man hurtled him and closed the distance in three loping strides. He was pulling the trigger even as he thrust
his shotgun into the bitch’s face. Her
skull exploded, her brains splattering everything and everyone within a ten-foot
radius.
The young man was
now drenched in gore. “Thanks,” he
muttered, his hair matted to his head with blood that wasn’t his own.
His tall cohort
smiled and helped him up. “You’re
welcome, T.”
Blue heard more
chainsaws and he turned to see a sleek figure with long black hair holding the
stout bald man and his fascinating array of tattoos at arm’s length. The man was fighting to free himself,
twisting left an right while he lashed out wildly with his feet, but the sleek
figure didn’t seem to notice. While the
stout man was suspended in mid-air, two young men who resembled one another
enough to be brothers dismembered this third member of the sinister trio, their
buzzing chainsaws ripping through flesh and scattering limbs.
There was blood
everywhere, and once the men with chainsaws finished their gory demolition,
there was no sound save a whispering murmur of disbelief. Bodies littered the floor and the club was now
filled with faces that spoke of shock and dismay. People were still scuttling out through the
exits.
Blue didn’t see
Bama anywhere.
The sleek figure
with long black hair and the young man were leading the tall man with the
shotgun and the two men with chainsaws toward the back door, and without
knowing why, Blue followed them all the way out into the parking lot. They were moving quickly, so he had to run to
keep up with them. As he trailed them
across the asphalt, the tall man with the shotgun turned and took aim at him,
stopping him in his tracks.
“Take me with
you,” Blue said, surprising even himself.
The tall man didn’t
respond.
“Please.”
The young man had
doubled back as the others climbed into a hulking black van, and this
blood-soaked warrior sized Blue up quickly.
“He said wants to
come with us,” the tall man advised.
“Bring him along for the ride,” came the cheerful
reply.
Author's Note:
This short story is a follow-up of sorts to my novels Trailer Park Trash & Vampires and Dirty Southside Jam. It also serves as a bridge to what comes next for these unlikely heroes. Stay tuned for more on that front. For more on those books and my work in general, please visit jameswayland.com.
