Joel Arnold - Fetal Bait Apocalypse - 3 Collections in 1

But goddamn could he play the guitar.

Up there on the small stage with a row of red lights making his sweat look like blood, he was a temporary god that made people stare at their beer and contemplate their fucked-up lives.

As he neared the end of a love song, the chords creeping like poisonous snakes into the hearts of the bar’s patrons, he looked up and saw her sitting on the edge of the stage. Three hundred fifty odd pounds squeezed into black leather pants and jacket, her hair dyed just as black, staring up at him. She was hard to miss. Her chin quivered with the music.

John caressed the twelve strings of his Gibson hungrily. The woman swooned. John thought she was going to flop over in a faint, but just as her body teetered forward, she forced herself back. Forward and back. Forward and back. Like a life buoy bobbing in the ocean.

He’d never seen her before. The Slaughterville Roadhouse was a place of regulars, the same farmers, bikers, mechanics, and antique-shop owners night after night. It was rare to see a fresh face. Rarer yet to see a woman watching him without staring at his birthmark. Without that look in her eyes of pity or disgust.

He dove straight into a fast, lively instrumental before the last one sunk in too far to ever get out. There was clapping and whistling. Beer bottles and shot glasses clanked on chipped pine tables in rhythm. The large woman on the edge of the stage swayed back and forth. Forward and back. Hypnotic. Her own special rhythm pulling at John, and he caught himself staring at her. Caught himself altering his tempo slightly to match hers. The large woman’s eyes slowly opened and a smile journeyed across her face.

John finished his set a few songs early. Took a sip of tequila from the bottle kept behind his amp to calm his nerves, then moved his equipment aside to make room for the next band.

The bartender handed John a twenty dollar bill, payment for the gig. “Everything okay?”

“Sure. Just got a headache is all.” John felt the woman’s eyes on his back.

The bartender nodded toward her. “You watch out for her. She looks like trouble to me.” He winked.

John grinned. Rapped his knuckles on the bar. “See you tomorrow.”

He followed her out the door, carrying his guitar with one hand, an old leather hat in the other. In the gravel parking lot, she stopped. Turned. John swallowed. Nodded toward his pick-up. She squeezed in without a word.

The life of a musician, John thought.

He’d had groupies before. Lost, wayward women who became a bright shining light for a few brief moments. But they were few and far between. And he learned long ago to grab hold of that brightness when he could.

The truck bounced on the washboard surface of the dirt road, leaving a flurry of dust and dead autumn leaves in its wake.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Chryse,” she said.

John’s eyes darted briefly to her reflection in the rearview mirror. The dashboard lights spun a green aura around her.

“You’re an angel,” John said.

Chryse smiled. “I’m no angel. I like musicians.” She put her hand on his thigh. He flinched . “And I know how to take the pain away.”

John slowed down. Heard a branch scrape across the shell of his truck. He wanted to ask her what pain, but knew it would come out sounding like a kid trying to lie.

Instead, he cleared his throat. Said, “My place is a mess.”

“I don’t mind. Life’s a mess.”

“You like beer?” He pulled to a stop in front of his trailer home.

“I just want to feel you.” She pulled his hand to her mouth and kissed his rough, callused fingers. “I want to know you.” She poked out her tongue and slid it slowly over his strumming thumb. “I want to take the pain away.”

In the darkness of the trailer they undressed. Her hands slid over his chest and she pushed him back onto his bed. She crawled on top of him, her weight pressing him into the mattress. Then he was inside of her, and the bed creaked violently with each sliding, bouncing movement. John felt a warm fire igniting his groin. He watched her flesh turn dark, watched the ceiling spin, heard a loud hum in his ears that sounded like a chorus of cellos all playing a single sustained note. He couldn’t breath.

“Get off me,” he gasped.

Her face turned to the ceiling, her chin wiggling, her stomach like a sea of oil undulating in shadow. John thought for a moment he could see the top of his trailer open up, the light of a thousand stars stabbing his eyes.

“Ugly fucker! You stupid ugly fucker.”

Tom Pike. It’s always Tom Pike who starts it. Whenever Ms. Darrow steps out for a cigarette. The eyes of the entire class turn on Johnny.

“What kind of monkey did your mother have to fuck to give birth to you?”

He feels himself shrinking behind his desk, wishes he could disappear in a cloud of smoke.

“Ever heard of a shower? Why don’t you wash that ugly stain off?”

And the giggles start. First, the two girls tittering in the front row, then a couple more start in behind them. The sound quickly ripples across the room, turning into a giant wave of pointing and laughter.

Johnny shuts his eyes, trying to retreat into himself, his skin feeling like it wants to turn inside out, his birthmark throbbing and hot.

“Stupid ugly fucker!”

He can’t take it. Jumps from his chair. Slaps the top of his desk so hard his hand feels like it’s full of angry bees.

“Shut up!” he yells. “Shut up you stupid cocksucker!”

And the teacher walks in. Ms. Darrow dressed so nicely in a blouse and black skirt, Johnny’s words hitting her, stopping her cold as if he had just thrown shit across her face.

“Johnny Baxter! Get to the office right NOW!” Her face is bright red. She seethes as Johnny passes her, the class still chuckling as he passes from the room with his head hung low.

He thinks about running away. Why did his mother have to move here?

He thinks about killing him. Killing Tom Pike.

Life would be so much easier without a bastard like him around.

“Stop!” He slapped at her buttocks, gasping for air. With a jerk, he rolled onto his side, forcing her off.

His world came back into focus. She sat on the floor in the corner, her hands covering her face. He heard her crying softly, saw her belly jiggle with each sob. He sat up.

“What the hell was that? What were you trying to do to me?”

She looked up at him through her tears. “ I can take the pain away,” she whispered.

John ran his hand through his sweat-slicked hair. “I think you should get out.”

He stood in the corner while she dressed. “I know who you are,” she said gently. “I know what you did.”

“Get out.” John had trouble finding his breath. “Get out now, damn it.”

The next night at the roadhouse, the crowd was smaller. John doubted if he’d clear fifteen bucks. He started to play an old Leadbelly tune, but had to stop halfway through the song when his hand seized up. It stiffened and hurt. Felt like a skewer had been jabbed in his palm.

He grimaced and bit back the pain. Started over, but only got through the first few bars when the pain worsened. “Sorry folks. I’m takin’ a short break. Be back in a moment.”

He set his guitar down and stood from his stool. Pain shot up his spine. He doubled over, coughing.

“You all right?” the bartender asked.

John nodded, hacking up a wad of phlegm into his handkerchief. He walked to the men’s room, feeling his muscles quivering beneath his skin.

He sat in one of the stalls and leaned over, his face hot in his hands. Another coughing fit overcame him, his lungs feeling like they were covered in mud, and this time when he spit, there was a tinge of red to it.