Edward Lee - Creekers

God, this stuff’s dense, he thought, reading on in the lamplight. Some of the words hurt his eyes just to look at.

Here was an oddity: homeoaxial transfective deflection—What a mouthful, Phil thought—a congenital syndrome where a person displayed horrendous defects while remaining possessed of absolutely normal reproductive genes. And here was another oddity, the kicker:

“Hierarchal savantism.” Phil had skimmed this description the other day, but now he read it carefully. One more commonality among inbreds. By some chromosomal fluke (which was termed homotopic genetic inversionism), some were born with grievous physical defects but normal if not brilliant minds, and these persons often became the community’s leaders…

Natter, Phil thought.

At midnight, he embarked for Sallee’s.

The notion of religion continued to peck at him. Were the Creekers really an inbred cult that worshipped a demon? And were they actually sacrificing people in some sense of appeasement, or in some plea for forgiveness? And if so:

Was Natter the “priest” of the “sect”?

Phil shivered. The entire idea shed new light on Natter’s possible motivations. Maybe he’s more than just a pimp and a drug lord, Phil considered. Maybe he’s also some crackpot cult governor urging his followers to commit murder…

He parked in the back of Sallee’s; the lot, as usual, was jammed. Concussive music hit him in the face the second he walked through the door. “Highway to Hell,” the speakers thundered. Cigarette smoke burned his eyes; the strobe lights flashed. Up on stage an ungainly blonde scarred by tattoos was demonstrating the dexterity of her pectorals, flexing them to the beat, which made her breasts jump up and down as if jerked by unseen strings. Then she flung herself to the top of the brass stage-pole and spiraled all the way down, a human corkscrew.

Don’t worry, honey, you’ll make the Olympics next time. Phil pulled up a stool, and in less than a second a draft was placed before him. “Ya never get here early enough,” the keep complained.

“Don’t tell me, I missed Sting whipping Ric Flair’s ass.”

“Ain’t no way in hell the Stinger’d whup the Nature Boy. To be the man—”

“I know…you gotta beat the man.”

“You’re catchin’ on,” the keep smiled. “But you did miss Ravishing Rick Rude winning back his U.S. title from that putz Ricky the Dragon Steamboat.”

“Them’s the breaks. Seen Paul or Eagle?” he asked to gauge a reaction.

“Nope, not tonight,” the keep replied immediately. He obviously knew nothing. “Can I interest you in a hot dog?”

“Maybe later.” Phil shook his head to himself, then turned when the crowd’s applause grew riotous. The tattooed blonde had stepped down, and in her place stepped Vicki.

More bad thoughts. He hadn’t seen her since being “caught” by Susan, which probably hadn’t been the most comfortable situation for Vicki. Yeah, he reflected sourly. I’ll bet that really made her day.

The jukebox chunked on to the next song, and Vicki commenced with her set, flawlessly as ever. Her red hair glittered in the fracturing light; her high, large breasts swayed with her movements. Even now, seeing Vicki close to naked before a roomful of uncouth rednecks didn’t exactly leave him overjoyed. And worse was the way she discreetly shot quick glances at him during her act. Yeah, she still loves me, he could plainly see. I better get out of here. He slapped cash on the bar and made for the back room.

Druck, ever the Creeker sentinel, stood by the door with his arms crossed, a meld of colors from the strobe roving his enlarged head.

“Hey, Druck,” Phil greeted.

“Hey-uh.”

“Can I get in back tonight?”

“Shore,” Druck said.

“Kinda muggy tonight, ain’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Seen Eagle or Paul?”

“Naw.”

A real motormouth, yes, sir. Druck pushed the door open with his two left thumbs, and Phil walked through.

The back didn’t seem as crowded tonight, not that he could see a whole lot in the darkness. The weird music churned in the air while light churned as well up on stage. “He-ah, come,” a soft voice whispered, then a hand queerly took hold of his arm. Phil couldn’t help but note that the single hand possessed only one finger, though the finger itself, by means of six or eight additional joints, was nearly a foot long; it coiled about his arm. A bosomed Creeker waitress with a grossly recessed forehead led him to a table. She wended through the semi-circle aisle with the aid of a tiny flashlight. But when Phil sat down and ordered a beer, he noticed that she’d been holding the flashlight with a thin, stunted “accessory” arm, small as a baby’s, sprouting from her armpit.

Jeeeeze…

These sights, along with what he’d read not an hour ago, depressed him further. He glanced around to survey the audience now that his vision had acclimated. Shit, hardly anyone here. Then he glanced up to the stage…

The dancer appeared normal. Beautiful. Sleek-white in nothing but a frilled, lemon-yellow g-string. Glossy straight hair, black as pure obsidian, shimmered past her shoulders and covered her face like a smooth, silk veil. Hour-glass figure and lustrous white skin. Her legs were perfect, and her breasts—Perfect, Phil recognized. High and full, centered by pink, undefected nipples. But the back room, he knew now, existed to accommodate those whose tastes were significantly bent: kinks and slobs who got off on the misfortunes of the handicapped and the defected. Phil noticed no extra fingers or toes, no warped head, crimped spine, multiple navels, or “accessory” limbs. What’s she even doing here? he wondered. There’s not a thing wrong with her. When the stagelights upped a little, Phil was able to see the number on her garter: 6.

And that gave him an idea.

He finished his beer, paid up, tipped the waitress, and went back out to the hall. Druck was still minding the door.

“Hey, Druck,” he said. “I think I’d like to spend a little time with that last gal, number six.”

Druck’s swollen head nodded. “Uh-yeah. Purdy one, ain’t she?”

“Sure is. So what’s the deal?”

“Fifty fer a half.”

Fifty bucks for a half hour must be what he means, Phil realized. “Square,” he said. Then he discreetly slipped a fifty-dollar bill into Druck’s twin-thumbed hand.

“Just ya go on out an’wait by the side door now,” Druck said. “Name’s Honey, an’ she’ll do ya right. Give her a few ta get ready.”

“Okay, man. Thanks.”

Yeah, Mullins would love this, his star undercover cop soliciting a prostitute at a stripjoint, Phil joked to himself as he exited the club. But, no, he had no intention of soliciting sex from the girl. What he planned instead was simply a little discreet talk. Drop a few hooks, slip in a few questions, see what I can get out of her

And perhaps she could even tell him what some of those strange words meant.

Skeet-inner. Mannona, he reflected. Prey-bee. Onnamann.

Of course, it might be all for nothing; most of the Creekers had serious speech impediments and could barely talk coherently, and some couldn’t talk at all. But he wasn’t making any headway in the club, so this seemed the next logical step. He had nothing to lose—except fifty bucks, he reminded himself

As instructed, he waited by the ill-lit side door. The big road sign flashed, painting one side of his face in garish reds and yellows. The moon peeked at him from the treeline on the other side of the road, and the night’s humidity seemed to suck the sweat out of his pores.

Then—

Phil turned.

The side door clicked open, then clicked shut. The girl stood before him in flashing silhouette.