CONTENTS:

The Haberdasher

The Longheads

The Apocalypse Donkey

Billy Roanoke (bonus short story only available in the Kindle version)

 

 

THE HABERDASHER

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

When she walked into Room 11 of the Solar Lodge Motel, the first thing Marie did was take the bible out of the dresser drawer.

She opened to a random verse in the Book of Revelation and rummaged through her purse. She finally found the small plastic baggie she had treasured throughout the whole car ride to the motel. Her eyes read the bible while her right index finger scooped up a substantial pile of cocaine and brought it to her left nostril.

An unfamiliar rush started from the skin in her face and cascaded down to her toes. She wiggled them and then kicked her shoes off. The stench of her foot odor made her nose crinkle; she picked up the shoes and threw them across the room. They landed in front of the bathroom door like two stinky rocks. Her finger dove back down into the bag and came up covered in shimmering snow that was immediately sucked up through Marie’s nose. God, I love this shit.

Then she heard a noise coming from the bathroom.

It didn’t scare her at first. The sound itself seemed to belong, as if Marie was the intruder instead of the noise. It resembled the sound a housemate would make while they went through kitchen cabinets looking for food. Marie thought it was a lazy sound, a slow-moving din. Then it began to frighten her. This was her motel room. For someone to feel that comfortable in it made goose bumps pepper her skin like freckles.

Instead of rushing out the front door and running for help, Marie decided to confront the noise. She knew it was stupid, something you should never do in that sort of situation. The drugs made her brazen, made her ready to battle to the death with whatever raccoon or hobo had intruded on her room. She waited on the edge of the bed, heart thumping and arms trembling from fear and chemicals. From where she sat she could barely see the bathroom doorway let alone the actual bathroom. This made her both petrified and excited, though the latter had to do more with the shit running through her system.

A slender, tanned arm darted out from the bathroom doorway and clutched at the rug. The fingers were rough, dirt trapped in every wrinkle and crevice. It grabbed at the floor until it reached Marie’s shoes. It grabbed them by the laces and pulled them back into the bathroom.

Marie couldn’t see whom the arm belonged to. Her eyes widened as she tried to mentally digest the scene of a stranger stealing her shoes. A small sliver of courage pushed her up off of the bed and two steps closer to the bathroom.

Standing there waiting to either make a move or have a move made on her, Marie remembered playing hide-and-seek with her brothers. From what she could recall, they were always hiding from her and she’d be left to creep around the house, listening for a giggle or a creak of a floorboard. Now in the motel room, she wished it were one of her brothers in the bathroom playing a joke on her. Maybe they’d jump out and yell, “Happy Birthday!” despite having missed it the last three years.

Another noise from the bathroom sent a jolt into Marie’s brain. It was a sniffing sound. Someone’s smelling my shoes. She was at once both disgusted and intrigued. Who would sneak into a motel room just to get a pair of shoes when she was sitting on the bed, a defenseless woman who would make a perfectly fine sex-crime victim? What was wrong with her? Wasn’t she good enough to be attacked, raped, or murdered? Were her shoes that much more desirable?

Story of my life.

Marie crept toward the bathroom slowly but her drug-fueled mind felt as if she wasn’t moving at all. She wondered if perhaps she had snorted something other than coke. She felt different. Marie took a few more steps and noticed the rug underneath her feet felt filthy. Though it wasn’t a surprise considering where she was, it made her wonder just how filthy her feet would be after walking to the bathroom. Marie could imagine the wrinkles of her soles turning black, the balls of her feet darkening.

She reached the bathroom door and peeked in.

 

 

Chapter Two

 

Through the filthy windshield, Red Henry Hooper watched the two men bring their duffle bags into the motel room and close the door behind them. He waited sixty seconds and when the door didn’t open back up, Henry got out of the car.

The Solar Lodge Motel was located just off the Garden State Parkway outside of Thompson, New Jersey. Despite having grown up in the area, Red Henry had never actually taken notice of the place and was now struck by the feeling he had traveled back in time to the late 1960s, which was the last time the motel’s architecture was in style. It was a shit-hole yet it obviously had enough customers to stay afloat in the world of Holiday Inns. Henry suspected the management supplemented their income by allowing illicit business to be conducted in the rooms.

He stood next to his car, staring at the yellow and brown L-shaped motel and wondered how many crimes had been committed in those rooms, how many infidelities, how many drug deals, how many scumbag porn shoots. He started walking toward Room 12 where the two men had gone in just a few minutes ago.

He stood in front of the door and listened. The television was on. They were watching The Golden Girls. I’ve seen that one. The one with the flashbacks and shit. Yeah, that’s a good one. Henry looked around and saw a man looking at him from the other side of the parking lot. Fuck’s his problem? If the guy stared any longer, Henry decided he’d go over there and put a knife to his throat. He’d say, “You staring at something, pal?” and watch as the guy would most surely start pleading for his life, saying he had a family and that he wasn’t meaning to stare. That’d be funny as hell, Henry decided but wished it didn’t come to that because he didn’t feel like wasting his time. Besides, the last few years taught him to think about the consequences before he acted, something the he had usually never done before.

He tensed up when he saw the guy reach for something in his jacket. Henry relaxed when he saw him pull out a cigarette lighter and walk away. Red Henry turned back toward the room door.

Ready or not, motherfuckers.

Red Henry slammed his fist on the door. “Open up, assholes! It’s the police!”

He heard frantic whispering and then a laugh. The door opened. Dix Hayden stood there smiling in only his boxer shorts. “You dumb shit,” he said. “You think I’m gonna fall for that a third time?” Dix grabbed Henry in a hug.

Standing behind Dix was Grant Minissi holding a beer in one hand and the remote control in the other. “Hey, what’s up, man?” He slapped Henry on the back once and then went back to sit on the bed. Dix sat down next to him and Henry took a seat on the other bed.  He grabbed a can of beer from the nightstand.

Dix said, “So, what’s the story? You out for good or what?”

“Parole,” Henry said, opening the beer. He took a sip and made a face. “God, this shit’s terrible. This all you can afford?”

Dix smiled and shrugged.

Lazily, Grant said, “Money’s tight right now, know what I’m sayin?”

Red Henry said, “Yeah, well I guess I shouldn’t bitch about that. I’m in the same boat. My fucking P.O. is hounding me. Gotta hurry up and find a job. Like I want a job at a motherfucking fast food restaurant or something. Not gonna do construction either, break my back everyday so I can go home and be too tired to do anything. Fucking bullshit, guy thinks I’m gonna go back to living a straight life.”

“Who’s your P.O.?” Dix asked.

“Eddie Ford. Know him?”

“Heard of him,” Dix said. “I don’t think he’s a real fucking asshole, just your usual hardass, doesn’t want trouble, wants to show his supervisor he’s a tough guy. I think he’s buddies with that Detective what’s his name. McMadigan. Fucking guy’s crazy. But Ford, I don’t know. I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ve had worse.”

“Still, it’s a pain in the ass.” Henry took another sip of his beer and made a face. Dix laughed.

“It grows on you, trust me. Hey, uh, how’s Susie? You two back together?”

Red Henry said, “Yeah, I called her this morning, talked about shit, not gonna get separated just yet. Good thing, too, since she’s been making good money lately which will help if I can get some before she spends it all.”

“Only thing better than a good piece of ass is a good piece of ass with money,” Dix said. “Oh, hey, I heard she lost a little weight, looking real good, bet you’re happy about that.”

Henry said, “Ah, you know I don’t give a shit about her weight.”

Grant took his eyes off of The Golden Girls and said, “I heard Susie was up to her ears in cock while you were gone.”

“Fuck you just say?” Red Henry said, squinting and leaning his head to one side.

“I said I heard Susie was up to her ears in cock while you were locked up.” Grant’s mouth opened in a toothy but silent laugh, his head shaking and showing Red Henry that he was quite amused with himself.

Dix said, “Jesus, Grant, what the fuck’s wrong with you?”

Grant smiled and turned his attention back to the television. “God, I love Blanche Devereaux. She’s pretty fucking hot for an old broad.”

Red Henry threw his beer at Grant, hitting him in the cheek and splattering beer all over the bed. Dix jumped up and stood between the two of them, hoping to squash any physical altercation. On one side of him Henry was now standing and staring at Grant who was looking down at his beer-soaked shirt with that same stupid grin on his face.

“What’d you do that for?” Grant said. “You know I was just fucking with you, right?”

Dix put his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Man, the guy’s just fucked up right now, took some pills, don’t know what he’s saying.”

Henry said, “He should know enough not to talk shit when he knows I’ll fuck him up.”

“Easy, man, easy. Let’s go outside,” Dix said, leading Henry towards the door.

The two of them walked out of the motel room and stood out in front of the room. Dix was relieved. He hated having to get in the middle of any conflict especially when it involves good friends of his. On top of that, he knew he was partly responsible for what had just happened. I shoulda never hooked Grant up with those fucking pills.

Now Red Henry was in front of him smoking a cigarette and looking like he was about to go berserk. I gotta calm him down. Take him to a strip joint or something.

Henry said, “Since when is Grant a fucking pill-popper?”

“It’s a recent thing. It’ll blow over,” Dix said.

“Hope so. If not, I’m gonna fuck him up, mark my words, friend or not.”

“There’s no need to get so angry, okay. We get together, we always talk shit like that. You know, ‘Hey, your wife was good last night’ and all that shit. Maybe he crossed the line, I don’t know but he’s high as a fucking kite so cut him a little slack.”

Henry said, “I don’t know, it’s just…” He started walking towards his car and Dix followed.  “I’m out on parole, I come here wanting to meet up with you two, bullshit, play cards, and maybe make some plans and I gotta deal with that dickhead? No way, I don’t have to take that fucking shit. You make sure you get him off the fucking pills or we don’t pull a job together.”

Red Henry knew he was probably being unreasonable. His wife Susie was a hooker and so he knew what Grant said was true. Even so, Henry still loved his wife, despite her profession and he didn’t feel like hearing that asshole talk about it.

Dix sighed and said, “Wanna go to Scooter’s?”

Red Henry sighed. Then he smiled as he always did when someone mentioned Scooter’s Go-Go-Rama.

 

Chapter Three

The go-go bar was one of many such places in the area where a man could go to get cheap beer while being able to eyeball Russian immigrant strippers and local college drop-outs. Henry and Dix walked into the place and were happy there were only three other customers inside.

The bar itself was a rectangle with a stage in the middle where the less-than-enthusiastic dancers would do their thing. The two of them sat down at the far end in front of the pool tables.

There was only one dancer on stage. She was a tall, lanky brunette with several generic tattoos. Henry hated that. If you’re going to get a tattoo, get something original. He saw that a lot nowadays. Young guys with faux tribal art as if they were ever even in a fucking tribe anyway. Girls with butterflies as if those creatures held any sort of deep meaning for them. The girl on stage had both: a barbed-wire-looking thing on her right arm and a real ugly butterfly above her ass crack.   

Dix got the bartender’s attention and she hobbled over. He said, “Hey Peggy, how’s it going?”

“Eh, alright I guess. Who’s your friend?”

“This is Henry. Henry, this is Peggy.”

Peggy said, “Hiya.”

Henry wasn’t quite sure if he was supposed to shake the woman’s hand so he just smiled and nodded. Despite her being a cripple, Henry thought she was pretty cute: five-ten and almost two-hundred pounds. Blond hair, huge tits, her shirt low enough to show off her ample cleavage. He figured she was in her late thirties.

“What can I get for you guys?”

“Bottle of Bud,” Dix said.

“Same here,” said Henry.

Peggy leaned over for the beer, her breasts even more exposed. Red Henry saw himself burying his face in there, licking the sweat from underneath those mounds. He snapped out of it when she put the beer in front of him.

“Wanna see a trick?” Peggy still held Henry’s bottle.

“Uh, okay.”

Peggy held the bottle at an angle so that it was pointing towards her. She held it out as far as she could and leaned her head back. Henry looked at Dix who just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Peggy cleared her throat and spat up into the air. The ball of phlegm rose in the air and dropped into Henry’s beer bottle with a fizzy splash.

“Jesus Christ,” Henry said.

Peggy laughed and said, “Well, sweetie, that’s sort of a Scooter tradition. You gotta drink it all up. You do that and you’ll have good luck the rest of the night.”

Good luck, yeah right. Henry looked over at Dix.

“You heard the woman, Henry. Drink that shit up,” Dix said.

Henry picked up the bottle. Hell, I’ve done worse. He took a big gulp and felt Peggy’s goo slide down his throat. He saw that she was watching him to see what his reaction would be so he just put the bottle down and wiped his mouth.

“Pretty good,” he said. Peggy gave a faux bow and walked away.

Dix said, “So, what do you think of her?”

“Who, Peggy?”

“No, the stripper.”

Henry looked over and cringed when he saw the dancer bending over, the butterfly perched on top of her ass like a stinky and crudely drawn pest.

“The tattoos are ugly and she’s too boney.”

“Yeah but she’s Russian. I love Russian chicks.”

Henry said, “I don’t know. There’re too many Russian strippers in Jersey. Just give me some good old American white trash or a nice Puerto Rican chick.”

Dix laughed. The dancer was making her way over to him, moving her hands up and down her body and shaking her small bikini-covered tits.

With a heavy accent she said, “Hi, honey, what’s your name?”

Dix leaned his head close to her and said, “What was that?”

“I said what’s your name.”

“Oh. Dix.”

The stripper covered her mouth and laughed. “Dicks?”

“No, D-i-x. Dix.”

She said, “Strange American name, huh?”

“No, not that strange,” he said, getting tired of her talking and just wanting her to do something that warranted his sticking a dollar bill between her tits.

Henry was daydreaming, wondering when the next dancer would come on stage. He had some singles in his pocket but didn’t want to waste them on that skinny bitch. While Dix was busy talking to her, another girl was making her way to the stage. She was carrying a purse in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. Fucking shit, Henry thought, what a dose of reality. He didn’t want to see a stripper drinking a coffee or carrying her shit to the stage. Might as well show him pictures of her kids or take out her past-due electric bill.

Next to him, he heard the Russian say something to Dix that sounded like “Dunce” but then realized that she was saying “dance” as in “lap dance”. Dix elbowed Henry.

“Man, I’ll be back in a few minutes, watch my beer for me.”

Dix followed the Russian to a back room and the new dancer got on stage after taking one last hit of caffeine and making sure her purse and car keys were set right in front of Henry on the edge of the stage. It was a cheap purse made of fake red leather. The car keys were connected to far too many key chains, Henry thought. He was beginning to get depressed.

Then he actually took a look at the girl.

*                      *                      *

The back room was exactly that: a drab room in the back of the bar that could’ve very well been used for storing surplus cases of beer. There were a couple of chairs against each wall and a few vintage movie posters (walking in, Dix noticed The Asphalt Jungle and to his right, the face of Barbara Stanwyck in Lady of Burlesque).

Dix sat down in the chair facing the Barbara Stanwyck poster and the Russian straddled him. She started moving, not exactly dancing, to the music that was playing at the bar. Her tits brushed against Dix’s nose and he smelt her sweat. She turned over and stuck her ass out against his chest, the butterfly staring at him.

The stripper looked over her shoulder. “You, what you do?”

Dix said, “What do you mean?” He wanted so much to put his face to her ass.

“For job, what do you do for job?” She bounced her ass up and down though it didn’t do much considering it was mostly all bone.

What the hell was he supposed to say to her? Yeah, sweetie, I rob places for a living. Banks, jewelry stores, you name it. Want me to take you to work sometime? Yeah, I think “Take your stripper to work day” is coming up soon.

Dix said, “Uh, different things, here and there.” 

She seemed to take that as an answer and slid her ass of him and lounged on the floor in front of him. She was on her back, her legs up in the air, and her crotch mostly exposed but for the thin strip of her bikini bottom. “You like? You like lick?” She rubbed herself.

Dix nodded.

The Russian turned over and sat on all fours. “You like lick like this?” she said and started furiously licking the cement floor. “Like this you lick juicy cunt, juicy pussy.” Her tongue was widened and was dragged across the floor until Dix could actually see where it picked up all of the dirt from the cement.

Dix whispered, “Jesus Christ,” but continued to watch in stunned fascination at the puddle of spit that was growing on the floor. While he stared, a man came into the room. He was short and fat with a beer belly like a beach ball beneath his Journey t-shirt.

The man said, “Hey, Alina, you get the money upfront for this?”

Alina took her tongue off of the floor and said, “No, did not.”

Dix dug in his pocket for the money and the man walked up to him quickly.

“Next time you accept a dance from one of the girls, the money comes first, got that? Or your ass is out.” He took the twenty-dollar bill from Dix and then said, “You looking for anything special?” His voice got lower. “Weed? Pills? I got some coke that’ll knock your fucking socks off. Not really coke, to tell you the truth, but better. Guy told me it’s made from squid, fucking squid. It’ll fucking make time stop.”

Dix felt uncomfortable. He was in the middle of a freaky lap dance and here was this guy, probably the owner, trying to sell him weed, pills, and fucking squid powder.

“Nah, I’ll pass.”

The man made a sour face. “Shit, man, your fucking loss.” He looked at Alina. “Got two minutes left,” he said and started walking out of the room.

She said, “Yes, Rick.”

The girl stood up and lifted her top, airing out her tiny breasts. This is more like it. Some good old titties.

Alina started slapping her breasts. First with her right hand and then her left. Right. Left. Right. Left.

Then harder and faster until her hands were a blur and her breasts were covered in red, fleshy blotches. Dix got up from the chair and grabbed her arms. “Knock it off, what the fuck you doing?” He held her wrists but she didn’t fight him off.

Alina said, “You don’t like?”

“Shit no,” Dix said. He let go of her and started towards the door. She called out behind him and he turned around.

She was up against the wall, licking Barbara Stanwyck’s face.

“Christ,” Dix said and went back to the bar.

*                      *                      *

The stripper that replaced the Russian was beautiful, Henry decided. She wasn’t beautiful for a stripper but just plain beautiful no matter what profession she was in. Cute Betty Page haircut, no tattoos (which was always better than ugly tattoos), and the prettiest, most hypnotic eyes that Red Henry had ever seen.

He watched her do her routine with more enthusiasm than you usually see at any go-go bar or strip club in New Jersey. Henry looked at her shoes and was happy to see she wasn’t wearing the clunky high heels strippers usually wore but rather a black pair of heels that would’ve been more appropriate on a female executive. Henry liked that.

The girl came over to him and he got a couple singles ready. She smiled and said, “Hi.”

Henry said, “Hi there.”

“What’s your name?”

“Henry. You?”

“Sweetie Martini.” She laughed like she was embarrassed by it.

“Sweetie Martini, huh? Guess your parents hated you, huh?”

Her smile lessened. “It’s a stage name.”

Henry said, “I know. I was joking.”

“They made me pick one when I started dancing at the club.”

Club? Henry didn’t consider this place a strip club per se. It was a bar. A go-go bar. Strip clubs allowed the girls to actually show some nipple on stage.

Henry said, “I figured. Sorry I said anything.”

Sweetie nodded and then pushed her plump breasts together. Henry slipped his hand in between them and left two dollars there. She held them in place with her tits. “Thanks,” she said.

She took a step backwards and put her leg up on the bar in front of him. The bottom of her shoe was in his face and he thought he caught a whiff of her foot, sweaty like the inside of a sneaker. She must have changed from her sneakers into those heels. There was no way she drove to work in those. He wanted to get closer but didn’t.

Sweetie grabbed the shoe and slipped it off, her bare foot now revealed, the stench not a mystery anymore as it mingled with the smell of beer. She scrunched up her toes and then wiggled them. They begged for more singles so Henry slowly put one dollar between each toe while savoring the aroma of her foot.

“Thanks, hon,” she said after he had put a total of four dollars in there. Then Sweetie took her foot down, grabbed the dollars from her feet, and walked over to the side and took a sip of her coffee. Then she scratched her ass.

Red Henry shook his head. Another dose of reality. Fucking shit.

 

Chapter Four

Grant sat on the bed while the episode of The Golden Girls ended only to be replaced with the pilot episode of Golden Palace, a spin-off of the previous show.

He popped open another beer and thought about Red Henry. Though he could admit to himself he had been a prick, Grant didn’t think he deserved having beer thrown at him. It wasn’t like I was saying anything that wasn’t true. Susie was a whore, plain and simple. Henry always thinking he’s better than me, he’s the one married to a whore.

Grant dug in his pants pocket and brought two large green pills that he swallowed with a mouthful of beer. He leaned his head back and the ceiling became a movie screen whereupon Grant saw himself forcing Susie to have sex with him. That was three months ago.

Grant had said, “Loosen up, Susie. Henry’s my friend and he’s locked up so I’m here to take care of you.” His hand grabbed her breast hard and squeezed until her eyes filled with tears.

“Let me go,” she said.

“Not until you show me some of your special moves, that thing you do with the squid.”

Susie said, “Okay, just let go.”  The next hour was spent with her doing whatever she could to satisfy Grant and get him the hell out of her apartment. She had decided she wasn’t going to tell Henry.

So Grant stared up at the motel room ceiling and saw the events of the past transpire while the walls transformed into giant pink crab shells with swirls of blue.

Christ, this is crazy shit. Grant always hated seafood and the sight of the crab shell walls made him a little queasy. Growing up in Thompson, his parents always took him to The Chowder Shack every Saturday afternoon where they made him order either squid or crab. It was a tough choice considering he liked neither but his parents would never hear it. The only redeeming part of the meals was the hush puppies. It was the only thing that quelled the nausea.

Still, he was intrigued by the wall. He sat up and stumbled over to it, feeling that it was indeed rough like the shell of a crab. Grant’s eyes caught glimmers of red and blue images so he looked up. Memories of his grandfather played on the ceiling.

Wait a minute. I never even met grandpa.

New memories oozed into his head: his parents showing him the footage from a projector, his father saying, “There’s grandpa fighting for our country. Son, look at that and be proud.”

The uniformed man resembled a thinner version of Grant standing on some large rocks next to the beach. He was alone but shouting out to the water, waving his gun in the air. To the right of him, a Japanese spider crab scurried to him. Grant was frightened. The crab was monstrous; its legs six feet long and razor sharp. It then used those legs to eviscerate Grant’s grandfather. Sprays of blood sprinkled the rocks. The crab seemed to tremble with excitement and Grant had to look away.

Inside of Grant’s stomach, the two green pills dissolved completely, sending a new rush through his system. His senses became more sensitive and he smelt the entire history of the room: cigarette smoke, semen, beer, piss, taco meat, mayonnaise, shit, and old paint. All of the stenches coalesced into a thick olfactory paste that bombarded Grant’s nerves.

The crab shell wall dissolved into streaks of white light and Grant stumbled back to the bed and put his head on the pillow. Here it comes, here it comes. But nothing really came, just noises: canned laughter from the television, the buzz of the electric currents, and a sniffing sound. There was something else under those noises, a sound that pierced Grant’s brain and tickled the hairs inside his ears. It was a combination of whimpering and the splash of a liquid.

Grant looked at the television which was now showing footage of an army of spider crabs overrunning a battalion of troops. He turned away from it and faced the wall behind him. The wall shuddered and Grant’s eyes widened. He put his ear against it and listened. Something was going on in the next room; he could feel it. There were sounds, yes, but he could also smell something.

Fuck it, I gotta see what’s happening.

Grant turned off the television. He grabbed the Gideon’s Bible, stuck it in the door way so he wouldn’t need to bring his key, and walked out of the room. Looking into the window of Room 11, Grant felt his head turn into a balloon, floating up, up, up and away while he watched a woman drag herself across the motel room floor. For a few seconds he wondered why she was dragging herself. Did she break her legs? Is her wheelchair broken? No, he told himself. She had no feet.

 

Chapter Five

Dix and Henry left the bar after having a few more beers and playing a game of pool. Henry sunk the eight-ball and lost, cursing his luck though he was used to it when playing any sort of game. He told Dix, “I just got a lot on my mind.” His friend responded with a friendly nod.

While driving back to the motel, Dix said, “I ever tell you about my brothers?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Henry said.

“My brother Louis was in the army, Sam was in the Marines. Both younger than me, serious guys, you know the type who won’t loosen up unless they’re really, really drunk. Guess it’s from growing up in my house with my father never opening his mouth unless it was to criticize something, but anyway. Not many people outside of my family know this but Louis…..”

Dix gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles turning white. Henry saw this and said, “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t feel comfortable with, you know.”

“Nah, it’s okay. Maybe it’s the beer, I don’t know. Makes me just want to talk about this shit, get it off my chest. My mother would kill me for sure if she knew I was talking about it but anyway whatever, when Louis came back he was, you know, different. I think he saw some shit there, something to do with those fucking freaks.” Dix pointed out the window toward a group of men with elongated heads who were stumbling about in front of a bicycle shop.

Henry said, “I wouldn’t fucking blame him, seeing that shit, guys coming back from the war all fucked up and disfigured like that and no one knows what happened to them. That’s got to fuck up anyone who sees that shit.”

“Yeah but he’s more than just stressed out or anything like that. I mean, he’s a fucking wreck, lives in our mother’s basement reading comics. Refuses to let anyone come in except Sam. Every week Sam brings him food, comics, and the newspaper.”

Henry said, “You should get him some help.”

“Yeah, I know but I don’t want to push the issue, have him go nuts and shot our mother and himself like those guys you hear about on the news.”

Henry was looking out the window, thinking about the situation from the perspective of someone who’s never had any desire to enlist in the army or become involved in any politics whatsoever. If suckers wanted to wave the flag and get killed, let them; Henry was concerned only with his day-to-day life which consisted mostly of surviving and looking out for the ever elusive “big score”. But now that he thought about it, he felt bad for those bastards who came back looking like that. No one should have to live out their days looking like those longheads out there.

Henry wasn’t really sure what the appropriate response would be, what words would soothe his friend’s anxiety.

He said, “Yeah, that’s fucked up, Dix, but what isn’t?”

*                      *                      *

Grant knew that what he was seeing wasn’t a product of the pills. Though he felt like his brain was frying, he was convinced the woman in the room was real. She had no feet which wasn’t so strange. Grant heard about amputees and had even seen some amputee porn; though, after viewing it he decided that it wasn’t his thing. The woman crawling on the floor didn’t have stumps. Her feet were cut cleanly at the ankles. And there was no blood.

Whenever Grant was put into this sort of position he usually went back to his own business and said, “Fuck it.” Whether it was the drugs or a blossoming conscience (he didn’t know which and didn’t feel like thinking about it), Grant decided to go over to the manager’s office of the motel and report what he saw. Then he got worried. What if the cops came? He was high as a kite. Still, he didn’t feel comfortable just ignoring it.

He ran to the other side of the parking lot to the office. Grant thought it was a depressing room. Pale yellow walls with decades old magazine clippings thumb tacked to them. A calendar that was months behind. Crumpled cans littered the floor. Grant looked at the guy reading a book behind the desk. He figured him to be no more than twenty-two or twenty-three.  No, he’s twenty-three, yeah, I think he looks about twenty-three. That sounds right.

Grant said, “Excuse me?”

The guy didn’t look up from his book. “Yeah?”

“Um, I think there’s a problem.”

“Who’re you?”

“Grant Minissi, room twelve,” he said and then added, “You the manager?”

The guy looked up from his book. Grant saw it was a thick comic book. He looked at the cover: a shadowy figure in a fedora hat; behind him stood a guy who looked like a punch drunk boxer.

Grant was never one for comics. He always said it was a waste of time but secretly knew the reason why he had an aversion to it. His parents never let him buy any comics or read the funny pages when he was growing up. When he became an adult, instead of reclaiming his youth and indulging in those childish pleasures, he went in the other direction and looked down on anything to do with them.

The guy behind the desk said, “Yeah, I’m Clark, the night manager. What’s the problem?” He still held the book open and though he was looking at it upside down, Grant could make out drawings of something that looked like a donkey. There was a girl, too, and some snow, blood, and black gloves. What kind of comic was this? Where were the guys in tights flying around and shit?

Clark said, “Hey. I said, what’s the problem?”

“Oh, uh, I think there’s something wrong with the woman in the room next to mine.”

Clark’s eyes were back on his comic. With his fingers he traced the donkey. “Ah, Little Bing Bong.”

“What?”

Clark looked up from the book. “Listen, I don’t ask a lot of questions when people check in here and I don’t really give a shit about what you saw because I can tell you’re fucked up right now. So unless you want trouble I suggest you just go back to your room and turn up the volume on the television and pretend the woman next door is just peachy. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He went back to reading his comic.

Grant said, “What the fuck is this? I’m telling you someone’s hurt.”

“You know how many junkies run to me telling me someone’s hurt or dying or screwing an alien or some shit? I’ll tell you. Too fucking many. Get the hell out of here, okay? I don’t know what kind of shit you’re on, but go sleep it off.”

Giving up, Grant walked out of the office. He heard Clark say, “Oh, Little Bing Bong, you sweet son of a bitch,” and laugh maniacally, slapping the pages of the book. He shook his head. Fucking comic books.

Then he saw a guy standing in front of the door to his room.

“Shit,” Grant said, wishing he had made friends with Clark.

 

Chapter Six

Three miles away from the Solar Lodge Motel, Robert Hapertas was drinking a Red Bull and smoking a cigarillo. It wasn’t anything fancy, he knew that, but he enjoyed it. To him there was nothing better than a case of Red Bull and a box of Laura Chavin La Vision hell cigarillos.

Robert sat on his white leather couch, the 52-inch television in front of him showing Barbara Stanwyck opposite Humphrey Bogart in The Two Mrs. Carrolls. This particular film always made Robert laugh. He thought Bogie playing a deranged son of a bitch was a real trip. Damn, I wish that guy was still alive.  And that Stanwyck, shit, she’s a real actress. Hot as hell, too. What’s that one she did with Errol Flynn? That was pretty good.

From the kitchen, Robert’s cat lazily walked over to the couch and jumped up on his owner’s lap.
            Robert said, “Hey Burt, whatcha up to, huh?” He rubbed the cat’s back and let it come up to his lap to lie down.

The phone rang. “Shit, Burt, hold on,” he said, holding the cat gently while he reached over to the coffee table to answer the phone. Burt stayed where he was, oblivious to Robert’s movement.

“Hello?”

“Rob, hey, it’s Billy.”

“Yeah, Billy, what’s the matter now? You run out of pills?”

Billy said, “No, nothing like that. Just wanted to ask if I could maybe take the night off. Got some shit to take care of.”

“I can only imagine it’s got something to do with that waitress, what’s her name, Stella something. Am I right? You want to get laid tonight, that it?”

Billy laughed. “Well, yeah, sort of. Her husband’s gonna be out all night and she has to stay home in case he calls so I wanted to go to her house.”

“And you want to take a night off selling so you could get some pussy?”

Billy was silent and Robert had a difficult time holding in his laughter. Honestly he didn’t mind if the guy took a night off. This week’s take was above average; he could afford to let Billy get some ass. But it was fun to let Billy squirm a bit.

Robert said, “You want me to lose money so you can get your dick wet?”

“Rob, come on, it’s not like that. Forget it, I’ll do my rounds, just forget I called.”

It was impossible to hold it in any longer. Robert laughed. “You dumb ass, I’m fucking with you. Go ahead and see your girlfriend.”

Billy said, “Thanks, I’ll do some extra shit this weekend.”

“No, don’t worry about it. Just call Ben or Dallas, have one of them make your stops for tonight.” Robert stopped in mid-thought. “Oh, but Billy, I’m going to have to make the Sun Lodge stop myself. Don’t want them going over there.”

“Oh, why’s that?”

Robert said, “They fucked up the place last time they went there. Don’t need that shit right now. Just don’t tell them I said anything.”

“Okay, sure, thanks.”

Robert said, “And Billy?”

“Yeah?”

“You keep fucking that waitress, you’re gonna to get yourself shot in the head by her husband. Can’t keep doing shit like that and not expect to get caught.”

Billy said, “Thanks for the advice but I’m cool. Guy’s got no idea about it. Too busy running the diner and all that shit.”

Robert told Billy to watch out nonetheless and then got off the phone. Burt was still curled up on his lap, purring. The television showed “The End” and so Robert gently moved the cat to the couch and stood up.

Getting dressed was always a huge production for him but it was something else he enjoyed. His family had been in the clothing business and so he was used to dressing well. He especially loved hats. Robert felt like he was born out of his time. He longed for the days where most men wore hats, when the city sidewalks were oceans of fedoras of all colors and materials. His collection of hats was one of his prized possessions and he often pretended he was giving a tour.

This here is a genuine dark grey pork pie fedora hat by Adams circa 1952, skinny brim, no blemishes whatsoever. And here, oh, I have another one, a high crowned fedora, light grey felt, satin lining, flexible three inch brim. Wonderful workmanship you just can’t find nowadays, ladies and gentlemen. 

Robert stood in the mirror, modeling one of his hats. His walk-in closet was filled with vintage suits and hats as well as a collection of rare cufflinks. At the far corner of the closet was his collection of women’s shoes. Robert walked over to them and bent down to pick up a pair of alligator heels. Dark green. Buckles on front. Made by the Lewis Company in the early 1950s. Robert had made one of his girlfriends wear the shoes for two weeks straight. He had told her, “No showers, don’t wash your feet at all, understand?”

The girl, Deborah, had nodded her head and said, “Yeah, yeah, I got it but what’s that mean? I gotta smell like shit for two weeks?”

“Wash up in the sink or something, your armpits, your pussy, whatever but just not your feet. Keep the shoes on.”

Much to Robert’s pleasure, she had complied and at the end of the two weeks, he spent a whole day worshiping the shoes as well as her feet while he played a record on his vintage 1966 suitcase turntable. He spent hours sniffing to the sounds of Robert Mitchum’s LP Calypso is Like So.

Deborah sat there reading a magazine while the whole thing was going on. Occasionally she’d say, “Yeah, smell those stinky shoes,” but mostly she read the latest Hollywood gossip. When he was done, Robert kissed her on the knee and left the room saying he had to see to some business. Deborah knew what that meant.

Now as he stood in his closet reminiscing about Deborah and the shoes, Robert felt good, felt alive. Though he didn’t live extravagantly, he was close to being a millionaire. People who drove past his home would never know it because Robert lived in a two-story house on a side-street of Thompson which was not a town known for its wealth. The house itself was close to eighty years old and was in dire need of new aluminum siding. Robert didn’t care much about how his house looked from the outside. He wanted only to live comfortably, taking care of his business and indulging himself in his quiet, innocent obsessions.

The phone rang again. Robert left the closet and answered it saying, “Yeah, Billy, what is it?”

“Billy? No, Robert, it’s Rick, Rick Scanlon, down at Scooter’s.”

“Oh, what can I do for you?”

Rick said, “Need more of that new shit, man.”

“What? Squid? I thought my boys hooked you up with that like three days ago. What the hell happened, you snorting it yourself?”

Rick laughed nervously. “Nah, Robert, you know how it is. I got five different girls a night dancing for me and I want them all on the shit when they’re up there. Then I try to sell as much of it as I can to the jerk-offs who come in here to get a lap dance. The shit runs out fast, man.”

“You better make sure your girls chill out on that stuff or you’ll be having corpses dancing up there and I don’t imagine many guys want a lap dance from a fucking zombie.”

“I got it under control but thanks for the concern,” Rick said, sweating profusely and appreciating the fact Robert couldn’t see that.

“Well, I’ll send one of my boys around but the earliest is tomorrow morning.”

Rick wanted the stuff tonight but knew enough not to push the issue with Robert or he’d find himself making a home at the bottom of the Raritan River along with the squid. Robert came off as a nice guy but Rick had heard stories about what happens when you piss him off.

Rick said, “Fine, that’s fine, I’ll be here by eight.”

“Okay then,” Robert said. “Bye.”

He hung up the phone and sighed. Son of a bitch handing out the shit to his strippers like it was candy. Motherfucker’s probably snorting it himself. Keeps doing that, he’s gonna be more fucked up than that barmaid of his, the one that fucking spits all the time.

Not wanting to hear the phone ring again, Robert quickly finished getting ready. He put on one of his best evening suits and left the house. Parked in his driveway was one of his guilty pleasures, a green 1969 Dodge Super Bee in near impeccable shape. Nowadays people didn’t appreciate style when it came to cars; they wanted bulky gas guzzlers that did nothing but supplement the driver’s lack of self-confidence or dick-size. This fact made Robert appreciate his automobile even more.

Once he started the car, he dug around for a cassette he had made. Robert found it underneath the passenger seat. He popped it in the tape player (that he had installed himself) and drove away listening to Frank Gorshin sing “Never Let Her Go”.

 

Chapter Seven

Marie crawled on the floor, refusing to accept what had just happened.

She could barely remember walking up to the bathroom door. Time had seemed to slow; her body a glacier inching its way toward the noises. She remembered snorting the coke but now she was sure it wasn’t plain coke. As she used her arms to drag herself across the filthy rug, Marie looked to the window and saw a man looking in.

Her recent memory of what happened in the bathroom seeped like oil into the present moment, soaking the motel room in a sepia-toned aura. The man at the window now resembled the thing in the bathroom. What was it? She could barely remember. Everything was going slowly. Her thoughts wouldn’t come quickly.

What’s happening to me?

Marie made another move across the rug and saw the man leave the window. She wanted to remember his face, wanted to memorize it in case she needed it later though Marie couldn’t really come up with a reason why. Her mind just couldn’t process anything.

Shutting her eyes, she tried to focus. It was a white guy with black hair. No wait, brown hair, looked black though. But it could’ve been red, dark red if there wasn’t enough light. Whatever, he’s a white guy, tall. No. I’m on the ground so of course he looked tall. Fuck.

Marie remembered the man’s eyes being bright, shining into the room like two tiny flashlights. That couldn’t have been right. Were they headlights? Was a car pulling in behind him? Was someone after her? She could feel her heart beating faster and faster as she pushed her mind through to the next thought.

What was he wearing? Couldn’t see the pants but he was wearing a white undershirt. People call them wife-beaters, real charming name. There were stains on it, yeah, stains all across the front in patterns of some kind, like that stupid Kabbalah shit that Terry had tattooed on his back.

The thoughts were coming quicker now but with them came the remembrance of what transpired in the bathroom. She turned her head and saw that she had no feet.

“Oh god,” Marie said. It surprised her mostly because she felt no pain, no phantom limb tingling or itching. All the time she was dragging herself across the floor, it hadn’t occurred to her as to the reason why she was not walking. Now it was clear.

She looked at the window, wanting the man to come back and help her. Why did he look in the room if not to see if something was wrong? Now she went through the shards of memory of what had happened in the bathroom.

There had been a naked woman there; she remembered that. Naked and covered in dirt. She was sniffing Marie’s shoe, holding it to her face like an oxygen mask. On the floor was some sort of machine, something that looked to Marie like a combination of a manual meat grinder and a cappuccino maker. Then what? She couldn’t remember.

The woman looked at me and then she put my shoe down, yeah. She put it down and held out her hand. Her fingers were filthy, gross and then…

Something to do with the machine, Marie thought. Her feet were gone with no trace of blood, pain, or scars. It was as if she never had any feet at all. Marie’s mind refused to delve into the past any further. There had been a filthy woman in her bathroom who was nude and smelling her shoes. Then something happened to her feet and she was left to crawl out of the bathroom and across the room.

So now what?

She listened for the man at the window. He had gone but maybe he’d come back with some help. At this point she wasn’t worried about the police, wasn’t worried about being caught with the drugs in her purse. The rug below her was stained like the man’s shirt: 11 circles and a myriad of criss-crossing lines. The stains kept Marie’s attention focused for a few seconds and then she dropped her head on the design below her. She sniffed each circle.

Mustard. Pickles. Beer. Ketchup. Semen. Menstrual Blood.

Her nose hairs tickled.

Bleach. Wine. Mayonnaise. Urine. Jelly. 

Marie’s head shot up when she heard the voices outside the door. This was it, she thought; they were coming in for her. The man with black/brown/red hair had gotten help. She had never been so happy in her life.

Her head went down to the rug in relief and her nose pressed up against the stains again. She looked at it closely and saw the design was disappearing, morphing into tiny dots that swirled like drunken insects.

There was the sound of a door opening and Marie breathed a sigh of relief. She looked up but the door was closed and the room was empty. There were voices, loud ones but they were coming from the room next to hers.

“Goddamnit,” Marie said right before sinking into sleep.              

 

Chapter Eight

Eddie Ford stood in front of the motel room door and watched as that scumbag Grant Minissi slowly made his way over. The guy looked exactly like the type of element that Henry Hooper should not be bumming around with being that he’s out on parole and all.

He waited for Grant to get to the door and then smiled. “So, you must be Mr. Grant Minissi, did three years in Rahway for armed robbery, paroled a year and a half ago. Guess you haven’t been keeping on the straight and narrow, now have you?”

Grant stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the man standing there, knowing who he was, but not wanting to believe it was real. Of all the times that Ford could’ve shown up, this was one of the worst possible. Grant was high, there was something fucked up going on in the other room which he probably would get blamed for and there was a gun in his motel room.

“I’m talking to you, son. Can’t you hear me? Or are you so high you can’t even hear yourself think?” Eddie scratched his beard and shook his head. “I can’t believe Hooper’d be so stupid as to hang out at this shit-hole with a known jerk-off like you. Can’t wait till he gets back so I can have a little chat with him. When’s he due back, huh?”

Grant looked at Eddie dressed in his shirt and tie, both probably bought on sale at J.C. Penney’s or Sears. The shirt was stained with ketchup, the tie too thin for Eddie’s chest. He felt sorry for the man, busting his ass for less money in one month than Grant, Dix, and Henry would make after one job. The guy was a sucker.

“I don’t know,” Grant said, “He didn’t tell me.”

Eddie put his hand on Grant’s shoulder. “No worries. I’ll just hang around till he gets back. You got something to drink in there, doncha? Soda maybe? I imagine you guys aren’t drinking any beer, am I right? Wouldn’t want to get drunk and do something stupid, now wouldya?”

Grant pushed the door open, kicking the bible into the room. Eddie was right behind him but then pushed his way in front and picked the book up. Then he walked into the bathroom.

“Gotta drop the kids off at the pool if you know what I mean,” Eddie said, leaving the door open. Grant heard a whispery fart and then a few heavy plops. He stared uncomfortably at the wall where he saw only shadows of his grandfather’s evisceration. Those shadows pushed him forward to bed where he searched underneath the mattress for his gun. It wasn’t there.

Fucking guy went in the room when I was in the office. He’s got the gun.

Eddie called from the bathroom, “Hey, you’re kinda quiet out there. Whatcha doing? Don’t start jacking off till your friends get back.”

Another fart came out of the bathroom. Grant dug into his pocket and got another pill. He crushed it with the bottom of a beer can and scooped up the dust with his index finger. The green pill dust looked like candy and reminded him of spending Easter with his cousins.

Grant stuck the finger under his nose and inhaled. Tiny rockets of drug matter burned through his nose up to his brain. It hit him faster than he had expected, a brutal cold shiver that sent his eyelids fluttering and his teeth shining with iridescent light. He giggled and said, “Grandpa.”

Meanwhile Eddie sat on the toilet, reading one of his favorite passages from the Good Book. He leaned forward and held the book with one hand.

 Hosea chapter 13, verse 16. “Samaria shall become desolate; for she hath rebelled against her God. They shall fall by the sword. Their infants shall be dashed in pieces, and their women with child shall be ripped up.” Ah, some good old fashioned vengeance. That’s what the world’s missing now with all those feminists and homos running around, all those kids disrespecting adults. God’s gonna come in and take care of that, mark my words.

He listened and again didn’t hear a thing from the room. That idiot Grant couldn’t be so stupid as to run off. “Hey, what’s going on in there? I’ll be done in a second.” He farted one last time and put the bible down on the sink. There was a creak like a weak floorboard and then he looked up in the doorway.

Grant was standing, smiling widely. His hands were behind his back.

“Let me see your hands, asshole,” Eddie said, standing to pull his pants up despite not having a chance to wipe.

With a high-pitched squeal, Grant lunged forward and brought his hands out. Each held one half of a torn beer can. Eddie reached his hand back to the side of the toilet where he had put down the gun he found but was stopped by the sharp edges that started to rip at his torso, chest, and throat.

The parole officer tried to defend against the addict; his arms coming up to block but were cut to shreds by the beer metal. His pants fell to his ankles and Grant made a slash at Eddie’s crotch splitting open the penis at the root. Eddie screamed and fell backwards but Grant kept coming, slashing and stabbing his way into the man’s body.

All Grant could see was a Japanese spider crab flailing its arms while it screeched and struggled in between the toilet and the bathtub. Poor little thing looks helpless. He wanted to put it out of its misery so he slashed even harder in order to break its shell completely and dig into the soft meat and whatever organs crabs have. He wasn’t too familiar with crab anatomy.

Then he saw the gun on the other side of the toilet. What’s a crab doing with a gun? He stopped attacking for a second and picked it up. It was his gun; he vaguely recognized it as drug-sparks bombarded his brain cells. Wanting to end the suffering of the creature, he thought about using the gun but decided he didn’t want to take the chance of anyone hearing the shots. So he found what he thought was the crab’s throat and slit it open, lifting the head up so it bled into the bathtub.

Grant left it there twitching while he went back to the bed and sat down. He grabbed a beer and put his head back. On the ceiling there were snowy scenes of violence; someone was getting murdered in an alley. There was a donkey. Like in that comic book the guy had back there in the office. Shit, at least give the donkey a cape or something. 

The warm beer put him at ease and reminded him of those nights he spent alone in his trailer with nothing to do but drink, smoke, and watch porno movies he ripped off from the guy down the street. He didn’t have a fridge so he drank warm beer like they do down in Mexico and England. At first he hated it but soon got used to the taste and was content to watch Chubby Cheerleaders 3 while sipping a Budweiser at room temperature.

Grant grabbed the remote control and turned the television on. Another episode of The Golden Girls was starting. What was it, a marathon? He realized that he was actually glad it was on again. He felt like jerking off and Blanche Devereaux was sounding good to him right about now.

 

Chapter Nine

Robert Hapertas drove down the streets of Thompson, savoring the position he was in. He didn’t mind doing a little bit of his own dirty work every so often. Most of the time he was behind the scenes, planning this shit, making sure it was done. It was refreshing to get out there again.

Most guys with his money would move to the city but Robert enjoyed the working class town of Thompson, enjoyed the gritty dreariness and slow-moving progress of it all. He especially loved the hookers. The bald ones. The dwarves. The amputees. The squid-freaks. Beautiful all in their own way.

When he reached the Solar Lodge Motel, Robert realized he hadn’t been there in close to ten years yet it didn’t look any different than he remembered. It still had the look and feel of a motel that should only exist on Route 66 circa 1965. Still, it had its charm and Robert felt good to be there.

But he couldn’t remember what room he was supposed to go to.

Shit.

Robert was usually very prepared, very meticulous when it came to work but sometimes simple things just slipped his mind. Ah fuck it, I’ll just ask the asshole at the front desk. Simple problem, simple solution.

He parked the car and walked over to the office. The motel was a sad looking place, Robert thought. Needs a paint job, too. He walked through the door and saw a guy sitting at a desk reading a book. Robert didn’t expect a guy so young to be working here. Maybe he was old-fashioned, stuck in one of the old movies he watched but he expected an older guy: late fifties, balding, chain-smoking, and grouchy as hell.

But this kid looked harmless and not the type of guy Robert would want running the office if he owned the motel especially considering the type of element that frequented the place. Robert would admit his business dealings were responsible for much of that element but he still couldn’t understand putting a skinny college boy on the night shift.

Robert said, “Hey buddy.”

The guy didn’t look up from his book. Robert could see from where he was standing that it as a comic book. Fucking kids.

“Hey buddy, I’m up here,” Robert said but still no response. He took a step closer and then the guy looked up.

“Oh hey, sorry. Didn’t see you there. Too busy reading. Man, this book is amazing, ever read it?” He held the cover up.

It read: THE ADVENTURES OF FAUNTLEROY LEROUX

Robert said, “Can’t say that I have. But listen, I have a question.”

The guy pointed to the window behind Robert. There was a sign that read

“NO, we don’t give directions. SORRY.”

“No, I don’t need directions. I’m looking for someone, a woman, probably checked in this afternoon.”

The guy said, “Can’t really give you that information.”

“Can you get me the manager?”

“I am the manager.”

Robert smirked. “You? You’re what, nineteen? Twenty?”

“Twenty-three and yeah, I’m the night manager. Name’s Clark and if you have any problems take it up with Smitty in the morning. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, okay man?”

Robert stepped around the counter towards the desk. “Clark, Clark, Clark. That’s not going to be good enough.”

Clark stood up and put his hands out. “Hey, what the hell is this?”

“You got the wrong idea, buddy. Here let me explain,” Robert said, digging his hand into his coat pocket. Clark’s eyes widened and then closed tightly. Robert’s hand came out of his coat holding a billfold.

Robert slipped out a twenty and said, “Is this going to help soothe your conscience?”

Clark opened his eyes and smiled. “That’s it? I get more than that just by keeping my mouth shut.”

Robert sighed. He’d much rather solve this sort of problem with cash than violence but this guy Clark was getting on his nerves. He slipped out two more twenties. “What I want to know isn’t worth any more than this so make your decision, kid.”

Clark shrugged. “Okay, fine. What is it you wanna know?”

“A woman checked in today. Probably this afternoon, maybe this morning.”

“She alone?”

“Should be,” Robert said and then waited. “Well?”

Clark said, “Yeah, a woman checked in alone this afternoon. Let me see.” He looked over the rack of keys. “Room 11 but I can’t give you a key or anything.”

“That’s fine, I don’t need a key. She’s expecting me.”

Clark gave a smart ass smile. “So how come you don’t know her room number?”

Robert felt like shoving Clark’s head into the desk a few times but restrained himself and left the office. He walked across the parking lot, kicking up sand, and wondered if the owner ever heard of asphalt.

When he got to the door of Room 11, he stood and listened to see if he could hear if anyone else was in the room. There was only silence. She better be there.

Robert knocked and said, “Marie, it’s Robert Hapertas. Billy Roanoke couldn’t make it.”

No answer.

The hell if he was going to go back and give that asshole Clark more money in exchange for a key. Fuck it. Robert channeled the old days where he’d bust into apartments and motel rooms for the thrill of it. He’d rummage through rooms for spare cash, women’s shoes, and electronics. Those were the days.

Robert took a step back and then sent his foot flying into the doorknob, breaking it. The thing probably hadn’t been changed for ten years. He kicked again, this time sending the whole doorknob apparatus to the ground. The door opened.

He walked in and shut the door behind him. Then he noticed Marie on the ground and saw she had no feet.

*                      *                      *

Henry and Dix debated whether or not they should go to a diner and get some food. They decided against it when Henry brought up the fact that the last time they went to a diner together, Dix got food poisoning and was shitting out liquid squid shit for three days. Dix suggested they go back to the motel and see if Grant wanted anything and then maybe hit a fast-food restaurant. Henry reluctantly agreed.

They drove back to the motel and parked the car in front of their room. Once they were out of the car, Dix laughed.

“Hey Henry, that shit I was telling you about my brothers, don’t mention it to Grant, okay?”

Henry said, “You think I’d tell that asshole anything?”

“No guess not. Oh shit, I just remembered.”

“What?”

Dix said, “I was talking to John the other day and he said he was looking for someone to take care of his place for a while.”

“John who?”

“Kreese. You know the guy, we used to hang out at his bar all the time, drink squid shots and whiskey chasers while those stupid college kids drank that imported shit. We get drunk and pick a fight, smash their fratboy heads against the wall.”

“Yeah, I remember. But what kind of job he got in mind?”

“I think just sort of like a manager position. Take care of things behind the scenes.”

Henry said, “That might be good but you think he’d mind if I did my business out of there, too?”

“Nah, he’s cool long as you float some his way,” Dix said.

“I’ll give him a call.”

Dix opened the door with his key and was the first to see Grant lying in bed, covered in blood while he drank a beer.

“Jesus Christ,” Dix said.

Henry walked in behind him and looked at Grant. “What the fuck.”

On the bed, Grant slowly looked over at the two of them and nodded his head. “You guys have fun? God knows I did.” He sighed. “Ah, Little Bing Bong.”

Henry felt the world closing in on him. After getting paroled, he was sure he didn’t want to live a straight life. The hell with a sucker’s job. He was too good at selling guns not to mention setting up and executing robberies. Still, he didn’t want to get tagged his first week out. He should’ve gone with his first instinct and not agreed to get together with Grant. Dix was okay but Grant was an unpredictable asshole.

“Dix, I don’t know what the fuck your friend’s been doing but you better find out before I fucking lose control.” Henry started to shake; the adrenalin pumping through his body preparing him for his next move.

Stepping closer to Grant, Dix said, “Hey, what happened? Are you hurt? Fuck’s been going on? How many pills you take?”

Grant laughed. “Man, I’m fine but you better go check the bathroom. Oh, and next door. Next door there’s something going on that’s real fucked up.”

Henry said, “Dix, go next door and see what he’s talking about.”

Dix nodded and left the room. Henry walked over to the bathroom. Then he screamed.

At first he couldn’t make out what the hell he was looking at. It sort of looked human. On the other hand, it also resembled a giant crab with pinkish white skin. He stepped closer to it, his adrenalin levels peaking, and looked at the head that was drooped over the bathtub.

It was Eddie Ford, his parole officer.

Or at least it had his face.

The whole body was a mangled pile of bloody crab shell, skin, and viscera. Henry felt faint. He held the bathroom wall and slowly walked out of the room, not sure what to expect when he looked back at Grant. Was he hallucinating? Would Grant, too, look like a giant crab? Henry was ready for anything at this point.

When Henry looked over, Grant’s eyes were closed and next to his right hand was a handgun. Slowly and as quiet as he could manage considering he was still shaking, Henry made his way to the bed and grabbed the gun. Then he left the room in a daze and wondering if Dix was witnessing something equally grotesque.

*                      *                      *

When Dix went next door to Room 11, he almost knocked before he saw the doorknob was missing. Goddamnit, Grant. What the fuck did you do now? He slowly pushed the door open and peeked inside. There was a well-dressed guy standing with his back to Dix. He moved towards the bathroom while Dix just stood there and watched.

The man turned around and Dix recognized him.

Robert Hapertas. The Haberdasher. Motherfucker used to work for Terry Silver. Even for an ex-con, he was a real fucking scumbag coming off like he’s all proper and shit when he’s just a fucking shoe-sniffing pervert. Dix’s ex-girlfriend Deborah had told him about the guy, about all the weird shit he asked her to do. She had told Dix he made her were pantyhose for weeks on end as well as high heels and old sneakers. What the fuck was wrong with the guy, Dix had always wondered. The guy was rich but lived in a shitty house off of Main Street. Crazy guys like that are unpredictable.

The Haberdasher squinted to get a good look at Dix and then held up a gun. “So you did this, huh?” He pointed to the woman on the floor. The woman had no feet.

Dix said, “What the fuck are you talking about?” He prepared his body for a quick retreat. Then someone jumped out of the bathroom and jumped onto Robert. From what Dix could see it was a dirty, naked woman using her fingernails and teeth to tear at the Haberdasher’s custom made suit.

Robert shouted and put his gun to the woman but his fingers were pried open by the woman and the gun dropped to the ground.

“Help me!” Robert screamed but Dix was petrified with morbid amusement. He felt an arm on his shoulder and jumped with shock. Henry was standing behind him.

“What the fuck is going on? I just saw…” Henry couldn’t finish. Explaining it just wouldn’t make any sense.

Dix said, “We’re getting the fuck out of here now.” He pulled Henry away and went towards the car. Henry resisted and took a look inside the room, watching the struggle between the dirty, naked woman and the Haberdasher. At that moment, the woman was pushed into the bathroom and the man picked up the gun.

“Christ,” Henry said and then got in the car beside Dix.

Dix drove away before Henry even got both his feet in the car. They sped off and Henry said, “You know who that was, right?”

“Yeah. It was the fucking Haberdasher,” he said, “and he’s right behind us.”

 

Chapter Ten  

Robert was more pissed at the damage being done to his suit than at the physical damage he was receiving at the hands of the crazy woman who jumped out of the bathroom. Once his gun dropped to the floor, he knew he’d either have to make a grab for it himself or get out of there before the woman grabbed it.

She now had a hold of his neck and was digging her nails in it. Over her shoulder, Robert could see something in the bathroom, some sort of weird contraption. Next to it was a pair of feet. Marie’s feet. He still didn’t know what the fuck happened and surrendered to the fact that he may never find that out.

The woman was so close to him now that kneeing her wouldn’t do any real damage. She had him in a clinch, her filthy, droopy tits against the front of his suit and her mouth open wide in a spittle-filled frenzy.

Finally Robert felt her muscles relax for a second and he pushed her back, sending her into the bathroom where she landed on her ass. He grabbed the gun and ran out of the room but not before almost tripping over Marie who was still unconscious on the floor. The naked woman ran out of the bathroom and ran after him.

Robert said, “Fucking bitch.” He turned quickly and fired twice at the woman. The first bullet missed and the second hit her in the gut. She screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in agony.

Getting into his car, Robert thought about going back in to get Marie but decided that the bitch must have gotten herself in trouble with the wrong people and it wasn’t his responsibility to help her out with that. Their business together was over as far as he was concerned and if she survived, he’d send her some flowers but that’s all.

What he needed to do, Robert decided, was go after that guy Dix. He recognized the guy from the pictures his girl Deborah had in her purse. He sees me in there with Marie on the ground, gonna get the wrong idea about things, tell the wrong people. Robert thought he saw another guy, a taller one who also looked familiar. He’d find out soon enough.

Robert also wondered whether Dix and the other guy had something to do with Marie’s predicament. What if that crazy woman in the bathroom was Dix’s new sweetheart? The fucker just stood there and watched Robert get mauled. That alone required retribution.

He was grateful at that moment that he had a fast car. Robert couldn’t imagine trying to chase someone in one of those new pieces of shit that pass for automobiles nowadays. Down the road, Robert could see their headlights or at least he thought it was them. They left the parking lot in a shitty foreign car. He’d drive up close and make sure it was them.

Then: Bang, Bang.

*                      *                      *

Clark was still reading his comic book when he heard the gunshots.

“What now?” he said. Since getting the job three years ago, he was used to all the shit that went on here. The fights. The drug deals. The occasional longhead coming around and banging on doors at three in the morning. Still, Clark was never told by his Uncle Smitty, what to do in the event of a gunfight. Calling the cops could bring some unnecessary heat down on the motel. Both Clark and his uncle had a stake in some of the illegal dealings that went on and they both had no desire to get locked up.

This put Clark in a little bind.

He looked out the office window but couldn’t see a damn thing because it was caked in dirt and dirty handprints. Clark had to get closer to the door in order to see what was going on but by doing so he knew he’d be putting himself in harm’s way. He put his face to the glass door and looked out.

Lying in the parking lot was a naked woman, trembling and screaming. She was holding her stomach and Clark can see that it was a gut-shot, painful as hell. He couldn’t see a shooter but saw a car leaving the parking lot so he was safe. But what now? Call the cops? No, there had to be another solution.

A thought occurred to Clark. The thought wasn’t an original one. It was something that he had read in the comic book. The motel wasn’t a tourist destination and so the other guests wouldn’t be doing shit about the gunshots. They knew enough to keep to themselves. So Clark decided to take the comic as inspiration.

I just gotta find a car, break into the trunk, drop the body, and let the poor fucker drive away with the body. Simple as shit.

First he’d drag the body in the back, wait until the middle of the night to break into the trunk. But the woman was still alive. I don’t give a shit, the bitch is crazy, probably a meth-head who attacked her junky boyfriend or something and got what was coming to her. She’s sure as shit not a girl scout. I’ll be doing the world a favor by getting rid of her.

Clark opened the door and stepped outside. He looked around but saw no one looking out their windows. They were probably all drunk or high. Clark jogged over to the woman who was only sobbing now, her stomach bleeding profusely.

“It’s okay. I’m gonna help you,” he said, grabbing her under the armpits. The woman squealed in pain but Clark held her tight and dragged her towards the office. At first she resisted him but then surrendered to the movement. A trail of blood led from the middle of the parking lot to the office. Clark made a mental note to cover that up later.

Once he got her in, he brought her into the back room. There was only a table, two chairs, and a cardboard box full of comic books. Clark put the woman in a chair and said, “I’ll be right back.”

The woman said nothing in response but instead started to sob.

Clark left the room and shut the door behind him. He looked around the office, looking for something that he could use to finish off the woman. Using his hands would be too personal for him. Not only that but he’s heard of guys who’ve strangled their girlfriends to death in a fit of anger only to find out that they weren’t really dead. That’s all I need, the bitch coming back from the dead to tell the cops that I did her. Fuck that shit. 

Clark wished his uncle let him keep a gun at the motel. You’d think with all the dirtbags that stayed at the motel, the guy would’ve let him keep some sort of weapon but no. He was cursing his uncle until he saw it.

The ashtray.

The five-pound squid ashtray.

Perfect.

Clark tossed it up in the air a few inches, appreciating its weight and imagining the sort of damage it was going to do to the woman’s head. He can imagine telling his buddies about it later on. You ever see what a squid ashtray can do to a woman’s head? That you should see. You should see what a squid ashtray can do to a woman’s head. He held it in his right hand and walked over to the backroom door.

As he turned the doorknob he said, “Don’t worry, I called for help.”

When the door opened, all Clark saw was a blur of teeth, throat, and tongue. He felt hot breath and spit as his jaw and throat were ripped open. The woman still used one hand to hold her bleeding gut but managed to kill Clark in less than fifteen seconds.

Clark’s last thoughts were weak visions of being a captain of a ferry that was sinking while simultaneously being a pilot of an airplane that was crashing. He cursed his uncle for not keeping a gun onboard and then surrendered to death.

Seconds later, the woman collapsed and grabbed the ashtray, holding it close to her like a teddy bear. She wished she was drowning in the Raritan River where the last thing she gazed upon would be the squid. Looking at the ash tray lovingly, she died.

 

Chapter Eleven

Henry said, “I wish we’d taken my car, I got guns in there.”

“Yeah well, we didn’t,” Dix said, trying to keep the car under the speed limit. What they didn’t need now was one of the jerk-off Thompson cops pulling them over. I probably shouldn’t tell Henry what I got in the trunk.

There were not a lot of cars on the road but they managed to get stuck behind a slow-moving Ford Taurus. Dix stayed close behind, fighting the urge to pass. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw headlights coming up fast.

“Shit.”

Henry turned around and saw the car, too. “That him you think?”
            Dix said, “Either him or a cop.” He sped up and passed the Taurus while Henry held up a hand to the other driver as if to say “Don’t take it personally, we’re in a hurry.” He got a middle-finger in response.

The car behind them got so close that they could hear the roar of its engine. It pulled up behind them, inches between the bumpers. Henry told Dix to speed up but they were coming to a red light in a busy intersection. Dix eased the car to the right and then slammed on the brakes. The car behind them slowed but was too late and hit the corner of their bumper. It slid across the road and into the intersection. A pick-up truck slammed into it and Dix could see now that they had indeed been followed by the Haberdasher.

While Dix was looking, he didn’t see the car in front of them brake also and they slammed into it.

*                      *                      *

Robert enjoyed the chase, enjoyed keeping his eyes on their taillights and getting up close to their shitty car. He was about to speed up some more and bump them into oncoming traffic when they moved to the right and stepped on the brake. Robert’s Dodge Super Bee hit the corner of their back bumper and spun around into the intersection.

If it wasn’t for the damage to his car and the potential danger, Robert would have enjoyed spinning around like that. In the few seconds in between spinning and getting hit by the pick-up truck, he said, “Whew, that was fucking awesome.”

The pick-up couldn’t have been going more than twenty or thirty miles an hour but it hit the Super Bee on the driver’s side, sending Robert into the passenger side window. He wished he had worn his seatbelt.

From the force of the crash, the glove compartment opened and a pair of high heels fell on the floor next to Robert’s 1966 Colt Anaconda Revolver that he had shot that crazy bitch with. His right arm felt broken so he tried using his left to make a grab for the weapon. He couldn’t reach it. Instinctively he made a move for one of the shoes. A week ago he had picked them up from Peggy and he knew they were well worn. He wanted to put his face to them, inhale the smell that he knew would make him feel at ease.

The driver of the pick-up was coming out now. Robert could see him, a young guy dressed in flannel and jeans. No style at all. Doesn’t the guy own a mirror?

The guy said, “Hey, you okay?”

The fuck he’s talking about? Am I okay? Do I fucking look okay?

 “No, goddamnit, open the fucking door.”

Flannel and jeans guy came around to the passenger side. “I don’t think you’re supposed to move until the ambulance comes.”

Robert said, “Get me the fuck out now.”

The guy walked away and started talking with another driver who was drinking a coffee while staring at the crashed cars. Robert wanted to get out of the car and beat the shit out of them both. Or better yet use the Anaconda to blow some big holes in their heads. He screamed and tried to reach the gun again. This time, he touched it but still wasn’t able to grab it. He tried again and got his hand around it but not without excruciating pain.

He stretched his left hand towards the door handle and opened it. The door didn’t move at first. Robert pushed against it with his shoulder and pulled the handle again. It opened with a loud creak.

Robert fell to the asphalt, landing on his right arm which he now knew must be broken. He heard the driver of the pick-up who was telling the other guy that it wasn’t his fault and that Robert had come out of nowhere.

He looked around, trying to see if Dix’s car was still there. It was painful but he turned his body around and saw their car about a hundred feet to the right, the front bumper smashed into another car. Dix was standing outside of his car now with another guy. That guy looks familiar. Where do I know him from? Yeah, I know him. Henry something. Susie’s husband.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Robert said, “Son of a bitch,” and then raised his gun.

*                      *                      *

Both Henry and Dix cursed as they got out of the car. Henry was about to tell Dix about what he saw in the motel bathroom when they crashed. He wouldn’t believe me anyway. I just imagined it, that’s it. I’m just going fucking crazy.

They looked over at the Haberdasher’s car which was smashed up pretty good. Then the passenger door opened and Robert Hapertas fell out with a gun in his hand.

Dix said, “You believe that shit?”

Then they heard the sirens. They were fucked.

“We gotta get the fuck out,” Henry said.

“I leave my car here, they’ll get me eventually. What’s the fucking point?”

A cop car pulled up followed by an ambulance. Two officers got out and walked over to the Haberdasher’s car.

Someone said, “He’s got a gun!”
            The police officer closest to the Haberdasher went for his weapon but was struck by a bullet to the kneecap which sent him down immediately. A bullet ripped through the second officer’s shoulder while another went through his eye.

On the ground next to his car, Robert aimed again and shot an EMT in the stomach. The driver of the ambulance came out and a bullet hit her in the neck, sending a fountain of blood backwards towards a petrified bystander.

 Henry and Dix were both on the ground and quickly crawling away from the scene, hoping to make it down the side street and over the hill towards the woods. Henry felt like he was in one of those old war movies, crawling in the jungles of the Pacific islands, dodging the bullets of the Japanese. He listened for another gunshot and then turned around when he heard Dix.

“Henry, let’s get up and run.”

“You crazy? You see the aim that guy had?”

“No way could he hit us from that far away. Let’s go.”

The Haberdasher was aiming again. He had already hit two cops, two EMTs, and the driver of the pick-up. Now he was aiming at Dix’s foot. He could see him crawling along with his friend and thought he’d be able to hit his ankle at least making it hard for him to run away.

He aimed and then smiled because Dix stood up and started running.

Perfect timing.

The Haberdasher fired and Dix went down with a bullet in his back. Henry turned around and then dropped to the ground.

Then the sound of more sirens tore at Robert’s ears.

*                      *                      *

Officer Freddy Fernandez jumped out of his squad car.

“Drop your weapon!”  He had his gun aimed on Robert Hapertas. Freddy watched as the guy did as he was told and then walked over and kicked the thing away. What a beauty of a weapon the guy had. Had to be, what, at least thirty years old. Shit, they don’t make guns like that anymore.

Freddy cuffed him making sure to pull on the guy’s arms hard because he knew one of them was broken.

The guy said, “Son of a bitch.”

Once seated in the back of Freddy’s patrol car, the guy started babbling. Something about a woman with no feet and a naked woman. Freddy heard this kind of shit before. Sick of these crazy fucking assholes with guns.

Another ambulance arrived a minute later and an EMT took her time getting to Robert who was trembling in the backseat. He looked over at the EMT: a woman, probably in her mid-thirties, cute and wearing well-worn sneakers.

Wonder what those smell like.

 

Chapter Twelve

Henry looked over at Dix who was lying on his stomach convulsing.

“Dix, can you hear me? There’s help coming.”

He could see an EMT coming over quickly and wanted to tell his friend what he had seen before it was too late. Though he wasn’t sure if any of his words were being heard, he told Dix what he saw in the bathroom.

Dix didn’t seem to hear. Slowly he stopped shaking and just as the EMT got over to him, he died.

Henry put his forehead down on the asphalt. He felt like crying but knew that the tears wouldn’t come, not after all the shit he’d been through in his life. After this, he’d try to go back to a normal life or as normal as he was accustomed to having. He knew he’d be arrested and probably would go back to Rahway for a few years but hopefully the evidence would show that he wasn’t the one who killed Eddie Ford.

Eddie Ford, his parole officer.

Eddie Ford, the crab-thing in the bathroom with its throat slit.

From behind him an authoritative voice said, “You Henry Hooper?” and then he felt the cuffs tighten around his wrists. He thought of Peggy the bartender spitting in his beer, telling him it was good luck.

Henry looked over at Dix. Good luck. Yeah right.

*                      *                      *

Marie woke up to an empty room. She felt a draft and saw that the door to the motel room was open, the doorknob broken off. What the fuck happened?

It wasn’t a dream; she really didn’t have any feet. It wasn’t a drug-induced a hallucination though she couldn’t be sure about the naked woman and her machine.

Marie picked herself up, wondering if she could perhaps walk on the bottoms of her calves. As she put pressure on them, she fell face first into the corner of television stand, the wood piercing her eyeball and sending it straight into her brain.

Her last living thoughts were of Japanese spider crabs, of a man being eviscerated by them. She instinctively knew that the man had a grandson somewhere who was witnessing the same thing she was and for that, she felt sad.

In the next room, Grant finished another beer and continued to watch television. I wonder when the guys are coming back. I’m gettin’ hungry. Horny, too.

He got up from the bed and with slow, deliberate steps walked to the bathroom. Shit, what a mess. Grant looked at the butchered mass of flesh and shell in the bathroom. He saw the image of Blanche Devereaux on the back of the body and walked over to it.

He loosened his belt.

What the hell. I’m not picky.

 

THE END