Bryan Smith - The Killing Kind

That was just…sick.

Evil.

The world went blurry. His head felt thick, almost like he was underwater. He was slumped over the bar, his face inches from the wood, close enough to make out the swirls in the grain. He shook his head and sat up straight. The clock on the wall behind the bar now read 3:17 A.M. More than a quarter hour after last call. Chuck swiveled on the stool and took a look around.

Holy shit…

He was the only person in the bar. The neon open sign in the main window had been turned off. Chairs were upside down on the tables. The overhead lights had been dimmed.

He frowned. “Where did everybody-?”

The words were cut off when someone behind him slapped something around his neck and cinched it tight. It felt like a strap of leather. A belt, maybe. Chuck gagged and clawed at the belt with fingers rendered sloppy by drink. His assailant yanked him off the stool, drawing the loop around his throat even tighter. His face flushed and his temples throbbed. His eyes felt like they would pop out of their sockets as he was dragged backward. He dropped to his knees in an effort to halt the journey to wherever his attacker was taking him, but the guy was just too strong and kept pulling him backward. Chuck craned his head back and saw the leering face of the barkeep. The scar beneath his eye looked bright red in the dim light.

Pure terror and adrenaline cut through the booze haze.

Oh, shit! I’m about to die.

Part of him knew it was his fault for being so careless. Shouldn’t have flashed all that green around.

Also shouldn’t have been such a dick.

These things he knew to be true. He also was pretty damn sure he’d never have a chance to benefit from these valuable life lessons.

I’m about to die! OH FUCK!

The barkeep dragged him through a door into a back room. The lighting here was brighter. He saw stacks of beer and liquor cases. He saw kegs and other bar supplies. There were two other people in the room. One was a sleazy-looking bottle blonde in a miniskirt and a black halter. And there was another burly guy cut from the same redneck cloth as Pedro or whatever his fucking name was.

He was dragged into the center of the room. The barkeep removed the belt from Chuck’s neck and tossed it aside. He had only a second to suck air into his lungs before Joe Bob slammed a powerful fist into his gut, sending him to the floor in an awkward heap. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the trio of ugly faces leering down at him.

He found his breath and uttered a helpless whimper. “Please…I’ve got money. Lots of money. You…you can…have it…all of it.”

Joe Bob grinned. “That’s mighty generous of you, Hoss. And we’ll be taking your money. But you ain’t getting off that easy.”

The other man grinned, too. “Hear you need a lesson in manners, boy.”

The woman placed the sole of a high-heeled shoe on his throat and pressed down hard. There was hate in her eyes. He sort of knew why Joe Bob was pissed at him, but what had he done to these other people?

He tried to think back over the night.

The long hours of drinking at the bar. Drinking and occasionally making snide comments to anyone who tried to strike up conversation. A blur of venom and negativity.

Fuck.

The woman sneered. “Gonna fuck you up, pretty boy.”

The men laughed.

“Got that right,” said Joe Bob. “And you ain’t gonna tell a soul how it happened, unless you want some of my biker buddies to kill your whole fuckin’ family. You want that, motherfucker?”

Chuck gulped. He didn’t doubt the threat. “No.”

After that, Chuck didn’t care.

They weren’t going to kill him, and that was all he needed to know.

They were true to their word, though.

They fucked him up.

But they were wrong about the other thing. A time would come when he would tell the truth about this night.

March 22

“What’s your fucking problem?”

Roxie had stripped down to T-shirt and black thong panties. Rob could see a tattoo of some sort on an inner thigh. There was another tattoo on her right foot. Words in Latin. He didn’t ask for a translation. He’d seen her bend over a time or two and knew there was yet another tattoo on her lower back. The T-shirt hid other illustrations he’d glimpsed in that gas-station bathroom. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor now, with the overstuffed tote bag in her lap, staring up at him with an expression betraying irritation and impatience.

Rob sat on the edge of the bed. He hadn’t moved from the position in well over an hour, ever since…

Oh, God…

A blood-stained vision filled his head and he felt sick all over again. At least she’d hauled the body into the bathroom. He hoped he wouldn’t have to see it again. Looking at what she’d done to the poor fuck made him want to tear his eyes out.

“Goddammit.” Roxie set the tote bag aside and came out of the cross-legged position to lean toward him on her knees. “I asked you a question. Answer me right now or…”

Rob frowned. He waited a beat. Then he said, “Or…what?”

Her expression went blank. “Or I’ll cut your face off, too.”

Rob nodded. “Yeah. That’s it, I think. My fucking problem, as you put it, has a lot to do with you cutting that kid’s face off. What kind of sick bitch are you?”

Roxie continued to stare at him blankly for several moments, that dead expression unsettling him nearly as much as any of the atrocities he’d witnessed today. Then her eyes opened a bit wider, a reflected glint of light from the overhead bulb hinting at a twisted playfulness. “You know what’s really interesting, Robin?”

“I really don’t want to know.”

She laughed. “What’s really interesting is the way you sat right where you are now the whole time I was in the bathroom. That was, what…at least fifteen minutes? Yeah. At least fifteen, between dragging that dead boy in there and showering off. And you just sat here. Didn’t budge an inch, far as I can tell. You’re not cuffed or tied up. You could have slipped out and gotten away, no problem. Now why is that, Robin? Why did you stay?”

Oh, shit. She’s right…

Rob groaned. “I was…I don’t know…numb. Out of it. In shock. Scared to death. I didn’t know what was happening. I just…I…”

Roxie leaned closer to him and crossed her forearms over his knees. The playful, twisted gleam in her eyes sparkled brighter as she stared up at him. “Bullshit. You stayed because you wanted to. Because this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to you in your whole life. Because I’m the most exciting thing that’s happened to you.” The small smile that curved the corners of her mouth stirred a maddening desire to kiss her. “Admit it, you’re enjoying the ride. You don’t want it to end.”

Rob shook his head. “Bullshit. You’re crazy. This…” He looked helplessly around the room, eyes darting about, taking in the large, sticky stain behind Roxie, the bloody scalpel propped atop the glass ashtray on the table, and the hideous thing stretched tight over the cover of the Gideon Bible on the dresser. The face mask. He looked Roxie in the eye again. That playful quality hadn’t diminished an iota, had only amped up as she watched him mentally cataloging the horrors. “This is insanity. Pure insanity. I don’t want to be here. I don’t think I was…conscious of being left alone or I wouldn’t be here now. You’re evil. Pure fucking evil.”

A shuddery sigh escaped trembling lips.

His eyes began to water.

Roxie tossed her head back and laughed with gusto. “Oh, Robin…and you wonder why I call you that? You’re such a scared little girl.” More laughter. “But no, that’s not right. A girl would be smarter. A girl would’ve run. I think a better word for you would be…let’s see…” She rolled her eyes around a bit, pursed her lips, and tapped her chin with a forefinger. “Got it!” She snapped her fingers. “The word for you is…pansy.“