Edward Lee - Ghouls

“My only match is Clark Kent, and as far as I know, he doesn’t live in this town.”

Kurt left the station, smiling and shaking his head. That was one thing he’d always admired about Swaggert, that clear and overwhelming sense of confidence. That’s what it all boiled down to, Kurt knew. That’s what made Swaggert tick—confidence.

But what Kurt didn’t know was that all the confidence in the world wouldn’t help Swaggert that night. Nor could he have known that he had just spoken to Swaggert for the last time.

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CHAPTER FIVE

Vicky could never decide what she hated most about the Anvil. Poor tips, terrible, infantile music, or lights that flashed hot and mad and drove lancets of pain through your head. But she supposed it was the heart of the place more than anything else. She was only a waitress, but that did not justify that she worked in a strip joint.

The night groaned on, waning. She performed her duties as if recently summoned from the crypt. Running tabs, dumping out heaped ashtrays, clearing empties away by the armful. She’d done it a million times in the past, waiting on derelicts in this derelict place; it was routine now. When it got busy, the din often rose to crush her, a maelstrom of noise—she couldn’t think. Faces melted into lumps of sameness, drinking, smoking, staring without expression. She felt her force of life being wrested out and wasted as she hurried back and forth, night after night, toting beer and an apron heavy with change. Sometimes she would work her tables for hours and not even know it, days and weeks passing slowly as grueling dreams.

Overhead hung rows of multicolored spotlights that aimed down and lit up the dance stage like an inferno. The stage floor was raised three feet off the ground and covered with Plexiglas under which more lights throbbed. Ceiling-high mirrors formed the front and rear walls, creating an illusion of space that transformed the Anvil into a dark, endless gallery full of doppelgangers. Vicky knew that one day she would see her reflections marching about independently, and that would be the end.

Tables and chairs faced the stage from three sides; there were some padded booths along the far wall, but no one ever sat in them. Red candle orbs glowed eerily on each table—these Vicky especially detested because it was her job to light them every day, only to have a bunch of fat saps immediately blow them out and fill them with peanut shells and cigarette butts. The jukebox blared hard rock and country and western, exclusively, and was wired to an absolutely terrifying sound system that made the Anvil shake like a seismic tremor. Often Vicky worked with cotton balls in her ears, but even they did not block out the landslide of sound.

Weekdays were her relief; there were only ten or twelve customers just then. She took another round to a group of construction deadbeats sitting front and center. “Hey, hon,” one of them said. He had road tar on his arms and shirt. “Wanna go home with the man of your dreams?”

“If you’re the man of my dreams, then all my dreams must be nightmares.” She smirked at the junk-stuffed candle orb and noticed tobacco juice in some of the empties, which she gathered up with great care. “My oh my, what fine tailfeathers,” another one said. Vicky told him that he must be an expert on tailfeathers, since he smelled like a henhouse.

She took a break after a few more orders. Ah, the good life, she thought. She sat down on the end barstool by the halfboard and shook out a cigarette. The music beat in her ears, a downpour of grinding heavy metal. On stage, the current dancer was stepping it out, trying her best to be erotic, but getting more laughs than applause. Vicky doubted she was much older than eighteen. Any girl with a body could get a job here; they came and went like birds, and seemed as smart. At the song’s climax, the dancer attempted a full spin, but halfway through, the heel snapped off her sandal, and she hit the dance floor butt-first with a great slapping thud. Laughter sailed up from the audience like a breaking wave.

The song played itself out, the juke thumped off. Blushing scarlet, the dancer grabbed her gown and rushed offstage to the dressing room. Vicky immersed herself in the joyous, blissful silence, wishing she could ride away in it. Cigarette smoke hung frozen in the aura of stagelight, glasses clinked. She touched her mouth and was immediately aware of the dull ache behind her lower lip. Lenny had smacked her in the mouth that morning, one of his better smacks. When she shifted slightly on the stool, the throb of pain between her legs reminded her of what he’d done after he’d hit her. She doubted that he’d planned it that way, to have her right there on the living-room floor; perhaps the blood on her chin had sparked his lust. He’d used Kurt’s appearance to punish her both ways. The inside of her mouth felt ragged and tasted faintly of rust. At least he hadn’t hit her in the eye this time; the manager always bitched at her when she came in with a black eye.

Hoots shot up, startling her. Customers began to whistle as the next dancer emerged from the dressing room. Joanne Sulley stepped coolly onto the stage, silent and lithe in high heels, black nylons, and a black transparent dress. The juke thumped back on, and Joanne went into her six-song dance set before a grating, pulsating assault of still more heavy metal. Her flesh glowed beneath the dress; she flew into the opener with wild precision, gyrating gymnastically, twirling, and dropping splits that hurt just to watch. The crowd grew riled.

Vicky looked on through a wave of disgust. Her hatred for Joanne was no secret, and the hatred was mutual. She wasn’t sure when their dislike for each other had begun; she wasn’t even sure what had caused it. Vicky knew now that Joanne was on Lenny’s regular list, but even that had nothing to do with it. She deplored Joanne simply because of the kind of person she was: a self-centered, egotistical sexpot with no regard for morality and no measure of discipline whatsoever. The average topless dancer came in, did her thing, and left, all an act. But with Joanne it was much more, it was a total, overt willingness to exploit herself via her body in order to gain the worship of weak, lonely men. She was an insult to herself and to all of womanhood, a cunning, predatory outrage.

Joanne dominated the stage, reined the focus of the audience. She spun once, perfectly, completely, and her hair and the hem of her dress flew up and down at the same time, as if by will. Another twirl, another rise of the dress, and she skimmed it over her head and off her body in one fluid movement, letting it float to the floor. Now, all she had on from the nylons, mid-thigh, to the black choker around her throat was a tiny powder-blue G-string. Something obscene and deep lurked behind her eyes, all but hidden by unabashed nakedness and a physique very close to perfect. The lights pulsed on her from above and below, tinting her flesh luridly in a meld of obscure shades. The crowd seemed breathless now, their hoots and hollers replaced by the silence of complete attentiveness. They were in awe, fixed on her as if preconditioned. Her body moved with the music, moved with the lights. Every step she took, every movement, breath, and gesture, seemed an act of precision so honed it was no longer even conscious. For every second she danced, Joanne ruled the crowd.

When the song ended, the audience exploded with applause. Joanne stood center stage, hands on bare hips, feet apart, and received her applause without so much as a bow or even a smile. Slowly, she panned her head, and the subtle obscenity behind her eyes raged.

Finally she broke and came off the stage to instruct the barkeep to boost the lights and volume. She grinned brassily at Vicky, as if to denote superiority. Vicky shook her head and mouthed something which could not be described as complimentary. Still grinning, Joanne pointed to her own crotch and said, “Eat me.”