This is how my vampire novel (the only one I will ever write) starts. -- H.K.
CHAPTER ONE
It begins with a kiss…
Donna sat on the kitchen floor, crying, her face hidden behind a veil of
long brown hair.
Roland stood by the refrigerator, watching her narrow shoulders tremble
with the force of her sobs and her small white hands shaking between her folded
legs.
He went to the sink and rinsed the blood from his fists, drying his
hands on his T-shirt. “I’m going out for awhile,” he told her. He opened the
refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of beer, twisted off the cap and flicked it at
her, making her flinch. “Is that okay with you, honey?”
She didn’t answer. Another drop of blood fell from her nose, further
embroidering the dark red splash-pattern spreading across her naked thighs.
He left the house, slamming the screen door.
Shemp, Donna’s cross-eyed Doberman pinscher, started barking, tensing
against the chain that tethered him to the side of the house - gnashing jaws
sending droplets of froth into the heavy air.
“Shut up!”
It hadn’t rained in over a month and every step on the parched soil
raised a puff of dust. Too hot - WAY too hot. Was this summer ever going to
stop? He could never survive in a place like Texas. Florida. New Orleans. Fuck that shit. He thought,
Hurry up fall. Hurry up winter. Gimme frost, snow and wind-chill factors. Gimme
ice-fishing on Lake Pickerel...
Roland lowered himself into his battered brown Malibu. The rust-bucket. The BondO-mobile.
Sunglasses: Check.
Cigarettes: Check.
The gun was in the glove compartment. Check.
It felt like a Christ on a Crutch kind of day. He rummaged through
crushed beer and soda cans, crumpled McDonald’s bags and clattering cassette
tapes until he found the music he needed, Crime
Pays When Pigs Die by Christ on a Crutch.
Check.
He started the engine, the sudden roar and backfire startling a brief
rest in Shemp’s snapping clamor. What a pain in the ass that dog was.
He nestled the beer into his crotch, hit PLAY, and stomped on the gas, spinning his tires,
sending huge plumes of pale yellow dust somersaulting into the air. The loud,
rapid-fire music eclipsed Shemp’s yaps as Roland sped toward a smear of heat shimmering
above the baked asphalt.
He drove to The Tornado Cellar, a sagging old bar at the edge of a dense
pine forest, six miles north of Donna’s house. It was a crumbling old dive but
it was the only dive in town and at least they had a pool table and decent tunes
on the jukebox. When he pulled into the parking lot he realized he was hungry
and wished he’d grabbed something from Donna’s fridge. The only food the Cellar
sold was over- priced garbage behind the bar; pickled eggs, venison jerky, fried
honeycomb tripe, shit like that. Not real appetizing, but the jerky wasn’t bad
when you were shitfaced.
And he predicted he was going to get shitfaced.
He walked into the dark bar, removed his sunglasses and stood blinking a
while. The cozy smell of spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke welcomed him
like an old friend. The place wasn’t rocking yet - a couple of old-timers
playing pool, Gibby and Marybelle bickering at the bar. He knew in a few hours
the place would be crowded and loud.
Jimmy the Kid was behind the bar.
“Hey, Jim,” Roland said. He dropped his sunglasses, cigarettes and lighter on the bar and
sat down, his breath coming out in a long, weary gust. “Gimme a Bud.”
“Oh, hey, Rol.” Jimmy grinned for a bit, a tense, tight smile. “Um,” he said. “I ain’t supposed
to serve you no more.” He hunched his shoulders.
“What are you talking about?”
“I thought you knew. Boss’s orders. You been cut off for the rest of the
month. I thought you knew.”
“When the fuck did this happen?”
“Tuesday. Boss says he told you you were banned for two weeks. Says you
knew.”
“Bullshit! Nobody said
anything to me!”
Jimmy shrugged, his gaze shooting around the bar, landing on anything
but Roland’s angry expression. “Boss says he told you. Says you said okay.” He
shrugged again.
“Never happened.”
“Boss says...”
“Yeah, well I don’t really give a fuck what the boss says. Just gimme a
beer and quit giving me shit. Huh, Jimmy? I been through a lot today and it’s a
fucking hundred and fifty degrees outside and I want a fucking BEER! NOW!” He’d
meant to slam his fist on the bar, but misjudged and crushed his sunglasses.
Fuck it. He swept them at Jimmy and they bounced off his crotch and landed on
the floor.
Jimmy shrugged again and held out his empty hands. “Can’t, man. Sorry.”
The rage drained from Roland’s face and he smiled. “Okay, Jimmy. I don’t want to cause
trouble. You’re just doing your job. Right?”
“That’s right. Hey, if it was up to me, I’d serve you. I don’t think
what you did was so bad. Not worth getting shut off for anyway...”
“Um, refresh my memory, willya Jim? What exactly did I do?”
“You don’t remember?”
“It’s hazy.”
“It’s no big deal. You were
drunk. You didn’t know what you were doing...”
“What did I do?” Aggravation had creeped back into his voice.
Jimmy’s eyes started darting again. “You. You, uh, pissed in the pool
table. Left side pocket.”
“What?” Roland said, and then broke into booming, hysterical laughter. “Jesus
Christ! Really? Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Wow!”
Jimmy returned a nervous smile. “Yeah. Like I said, it’s no big deal but the Boss was
pretty pissed...”
“I guess so! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Jimmy went: “Heh, heh.”
“Oh man... That’s priceless.”
Jimmy nodded.
“So, is the Boss around?”
“No. Not till tonight.”
“So why don’t you just slide me a beer on the quiet? Huh, Jimmy? What do
you say?”
He shook his head. “Can’t, Roland.”
“Aw, come on. Be a regular guy. Just do me this one little favor. Huh?
Please, Jim? Just one beer and I’ll be gone. I promise. Come on.”
Jimmy looked at him, thinking, unsure. He shook his head. “Naaah... I
don’t think I should...”
“Jimmy, please. My throat’s about to die of thirst. One beer. On the
hush-hush. Nobody’ll know. There’ll be a big tip in it for you. Come on, Jimmy.
Jimmy? Jiiiimmeeeeee?”
Jimmy just looked at him.
“I’m dying, Jim. I mean it. Please. Do the right thing...”
Jimmy finally broke down, as usual. “Okay. But just one. And make it
quick.”
“Atta boy! Yeah, sure, a quick one. No problem. Hey, thanks a lot, Jim.”
An hour later, Roland was well on his way to getting drunk.
His second prediction had also happened: the place had filled up. Dense
cigarette fog hovered over the crowd like molten ghosts and guitar-fuzz
psychedelia drifted from the jukebox. Ticks and clacks at the pool table.
Laughter and conversation tumbled around him in a
disordered roar.
He finished his eighth beer and thumped down his mug. “Gimme another,
willya...”
Glen Masnyk had replaced Jimmy the Kid behind the bar. He’d served
Roland without question, assuming the ban had been lifted - after all, Roland already
had a beer in front of him when his shift started. But after Masnyk slid him
beer number eight, Jimmy (the little fink) pulled him aside and Roland’s heart
sank. Masnyk looked pissed and Jimmy cowered a little, explaining himself, and
now look, here was Masnyk coming over, already shaking his head.
“I think you better get going, Roland. Consider yourself lucky you got
away with as much as you did.” He removed Roland’s empty mug so he
couldn’t smash it or use it as a weapon.
“Don’t fucken talk to me as if
I’m a little kid,” Roland said.
“Okay, well, then leave then.”
“I am leaving. After I get another beer. I ain’t leaving until I get another beer.”
“You’re not getting another beer, Roland. Not from me.”
Roland flopped his hands on the bar and slouched. “Aw, c’mon Glen, don’t
be like that. What’s the difference? The Boss ain’t around and I already had a
buncha beers. The ban is broken. What’s one more gonna hurt?”
“Not the point. I asked you to leave. You can leave now, peacefully, or I can call the cops
and you can leave with an escort. What’s it gonna be?”
Roland stared at him, thinking of ways he’d like to hurt him. Thinking
of the best way to inflict the most damage and disable him quickly and
efficiently. Then pound that insipid face to mush. Really go to work on the
bastard, WHAM!
Masnyk seemed to sense what was spinning through Roland’s mind because
he stepped back, reached under the bar and brought up a polished wooden fishing
club. It wasn’t the first time it had been brandished in his presence.
The roar of voices vaporized and Roland looked around.
Everyone was staring at him. He flashed a broad grin at Masnyk and
raised his hands. “Okay, okay. I’m going. Don’t have to get all threatening and
shit.” He slid off the stool, wobbling with fractured equilibrium. “I got shit
to do anyway, fuck you very much...”
He weaved through the crowd, through the smoke and stares and whirling guitars. When he
reached the door he kicked it open and it clanged against
the metal handrail outside. He slammed it behind him.
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