V.

  • Part 8

  • 11:13:49 pm on November 5, 2009 | # | 42

    The inside of the club is small and dimly lit. The air is thick with the redolence of rotting flesh, stale beer, and vomit. Blades of colored light cut through the thick cloud of cigarette smoke that hangs in the air and gets lost on the surface of the bloodstained stage. Chained to the worn brass stripper pole are the festering remains of a woman. Her legs have been reduced to two gnarled stumps by what looks like several shotgun blasts; blackened meat gleams in the stage lights. She watches with interest as John walks up to the bar. Her curled, blackened fingers reach out to him.

    The bartender rubs his greasy hands on his stained t-shirt and walks over to where John has sat. Oily black hair pokes out from under a filthy baseball cap.

    “Whatta ya got for me today, fucko.”

    John lays down the melted crucifix. The bartender picks it up and examines it for a moment then pockets it. He reaches under the bar and takes out two large glass jugs filled with moonshine. John looks back towards the stage where the woman now hangs off the stage by her chain which has wrenched her neck past its breaking point, causing her head to hang down past her shoulder. Her arms crack from rigor mortis as she reaches out for John. Dead eyes seem to plead. The bartender notices and belts out an obnoxious laugh.

    “Hey I think she likes you!”

    John picks up the jugs and heads for the door. The bartender’s laughter follows him out to his truck.

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