by G A Chase
Four guys playing pool. All holding their sticks like boners and, just like their cocks, easily neutralized. Fat fuck at the end of the bar—I expect he’s the rider of the worn-out-suspension Wide Glide closest to the front door. Loud asshole arguing with waitress. He’s more bluster than brawn, but the girl could be an issue. From the muscles she’s displaying under her tank top, she clearly could put him in his place without saying a word, but she is doing a masterful job of controlling her irritation. Bartender has a Navy SEAL tattoo on his bulging bicep that he’s only half hiding under a sweaty T-shirt. Must remember not to turn my back on that one.
She took a seat on the swivel barstool. One good kick to the chair’s base, and it will separate to provide me with a useful shield.
The bartender leaned an elbow on the cypress counter. “What can I get ya, pretty lady?”
Smooth talker. He’s sizing me up, but as a threat or a conquest? “Shot of Jameson.”
He tapped on the bar with his knuckles as if recording the drink order on the polished wood.
“Hey, is it true that gingers don’t have souls?” Fat Fuck asked. He apparently thought insulting a woman made for a good pickup line.
“I don’t know,” Sere replied. “Is it true fat pricks can’t see their dicks? Tell me, how exactly do you get it on with a woman? Does she have to be bowlegged? Because the basic geometry eludes me.”
“You’ve got quite the mouth on you, little girl.” The barstool groaned under his weight as he turned toward her.
Bartender Smooth slid the shot to Sere but addressed Fat Fuck. “No need for that.”
The tub of flesh returned to his drink. “If the little girl can’t take some ribbing, maybe she shouldn’t frequent bars.”
“Sounds to me like she was simply giving back what you were serving up.” Bartender Smooth turned back to Sere and used his well-worn dishrag to polish up a glass beer stein. “You from around here or just passing through?”
Wonderful. We’re at the brass-tacks-disguised-as-small-talk section of the evening. Sere hated casual conversations, but she needed to get someone to start talking. Bartender Smooth seemed like the type of dude who would hit on every woman who strayed into his domain. Having asshole customers made him appear the white knight out to rescue any damsel stupid enough to be distressed by the bar’s clientele. At least the lothario might be a little freer with information than the rest of the bikers. “A little of both. I’m doing some research on the swamp’s mythical creatures. Have you heard of any strange things happening out on the water or know of any available johnboats for hire?”
From his condescending look, she half expected some crack about her being a rich college student seeking adventure. “People are always asking about the rougarou wolf,” he said, “or the Fifolet pirate ghost or the Pleistocene gator. Just stories to sell swamp tours to unsuspecting tourists, in my opinion. But if you’re looking to tool around the swamp for an hour or two during the day, I’m sure I can set you up with a boat and captain happy to take your money.” The man’s head remained aimed at her as his eyes flashed around the room so discreetly Sere nearly missed his assessment. The man’s tattoo wasn’t just for show. Military training was hard to acquire and impossible to hide. “However, if you’re looking for anything more than the typical tour of the swamp, you should know that gator hunters don’t take kindly to strangers scoping out their grounds.”
“Thanks for the warning. What I’m seeking is deep in the bayou, beyond the alligator-hunting grounds. I doubt I could reach the area in a few hours. I’m not looking for a guide, only the use of a boat for a few days.”
He finally set the glass on the shelf. “Horror stories aside, no one stays out in the swamp after dark. Even the best of navigators can get lost in the myriad waterways, and no one wants to get stuck out there without help. Plus, when it comes to catching gators, a hunter can lose his tags if he’s not off the water by sunset. The state’s pretty strict about such things. Even if you could find someone willing to rent you a boat, they’d never agree to more than a couple of hours. Maybe you should consider a safer line of research.”
Fat Fuck slid his empty beer glass down the bar. It nearly careened into Sere’s hand. “I could show you a thing or two that would make you quiver. The bayou ain’t no place for a little girl all alone.”
Call me little girl one more time, and I’ll knock some of that fat off of your lard ass. “I was raised by a swamp witch, so nothing out there frightens me.” She eyed his fat belly, which hung over the front of the barstool. “And I highly doubt there’s anything you could show me that I’d find impressive. As for your hunting grounds, they might as well be kiddy fishing ponds at the state fair as far as I’m concerned.” She leaned against the stool’s short back and kicked her boots onto the counter in front of Bartender Smooth for the man’s inspection, discreetly placing the one with the knife on the bottom. “You sound like you know your river animals. Tell me what you see.”
He ran his hands over the two-inch-diameter ridged scales that covered Sere’s foot. “Big horny scutes, aren’t they? From the umbilical scar on the boot’s upper, the hide is clearly from an alligator, but not like one I’ve ever run across. The leather is softer than most gator hides—nearly that of a saltie. Those shoes must have cost you a pretty penny.” Though his hands stopped at the top of the scaled leather, his eyes continued considerably higher up her legs.
She yanked the gator-skin boots off the bar. “She was my pet. When she died, I skinned her, tanned her, and made these boots.”
A roar of laughter indicated that every person in the bar had been paying attention. “Listen here, little girl. If you’re gonna tell a whopper, at least make it believable.” Fat Fuck’s speech was so filled with saliva that Bartender Smooth had to wipe down the bar with his rag.
She hooked the toe of her boot under the foot ring of the barstool. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Bartender Smooth slid another beer toward Fat Fuck. “Let’s keep it civilized. I don’t need another bar fight, especially when the provocateur is so outnumbered.”
Loud Mouth leaned back in his chair and spread his legs as if he was trying to display his junk. “So all this talk of women’s liberation ends when things get physical? That doesn’t sound right. Any other biker that set foot in this bar and lied through their teeth would face a proper whooping.”
Damn it. A few more minutes, and I might have learned something useful about the swamp. She downed the second shot of Jameson that Bartender Smooth had set in front of her like a peace offering. “I was just looking for some information.”
The four dudes at the pool table circled in toward her like sharks sensing blood. “You were looking to horn in on our swamp land. I don’t know how you heard about the monster gator being on our lands, but any creature that valuable belongs to us.” The tallest of the four punctuated his words with flicks of his cue.
Damn it, Lefty. I told you to stay in the deep swamp. With the sound of the pool stick being snapped in half, Sere knew the time for polite conversation had come to an end. She hurled the empty shot glass at Fat Fuck’s eye and clocked him so perfectly that the ton of flesh fell off his chair and shook the floor. One down.
By launching backward off her barstool, she was able to swing its base up with her foot. With one good yank of the seat cushion, the heavy cast-iron base came free. She grabbed the shaft in midflight and twirled the lattice ironwork like a parasol. The first pool dude lunged with his broken stick like some foolish kid trying to poke a hornet’s nest. Sere caught the splintered end with her rotating iron-lattice disk and wrenched it out of his grasp so forcefully she felt his shoulder dislocate.
The rest of the mob closed in fast. With one complete swing of the heavy iron, she not only cleared an opening around her but also built up momentum. Laying the base back on the floor, she transferred the centrifugal force into linear projection and launched into the air like a circus acrobat. She caught Loud Mouth smack in the jaw
with her knee as she flew over his head, causing him to fall backward and crush the chair behind him. She reached out and did a hand flip off the neighboring table.
Like a swimmer doing a kick turn, she hit the back wall with her feet and barreled back toward the crowd. With her arms set like a flying cross, she wiped out two more of the pool players, but the reduced momentum landed her on the floor. She scampered up with her back against the bar just as the final pool player made a mad rush at her. He stopped cold like a cartoon character who’d just realized his mistake when he found the tip of her knife at his throat.
“I didn’t come here looking for trouble,” she said.
The cold steel circles of a double-barreled shotgun pressed under Sere’s hair at the back of her skull. “Oh, I’ll bet trouble just follows you around like a lovesick puppy. Hand over the knife.”
Fuck. I knew better than to turn my back on Bartender Smooth. She reached back and set the blade on the bar.
The final pool dude’s smile revealed missing teeth. “Now we’re gonna have a little fun.”
From behind him, the waitress wacked the dude in the head with an empty beer bottle like she was swatting a fly. He went down hard. “Don’t get any crazy idea about female unity,” the waitress said, “but no woman should have to endure Leroy’s brand of flirting.”
The gun was still pointed at Sere’s head while the injured started finding their way back to their feet. Things were about to get ugly.
“This looks like a Ranger’s knife,” Bartender Smooth said. “Not many of those show up on the open market. I’d wager you picked it up at the same place as those boots.”
“It was given to me by a friend.” Who also taught me how to use it.
In front of her, the group was forming into a lynch mob. The gun barrel behind her shifted as the bartender picked up the knife. This is it. She swung around to her left, forcing the barrel away from her head. Instinctively, Bartender Smooth pulled the trigger. The unintended shotgun blast of rock salt cleared the most aggressive of Sere’s pursuers. She caught the hot metal barrel in her armpit and kept spinning to force the gun out of Bartender Smooth’s hands. With one swing of the empty weapon, she cleared enough of a path to bolt for the door. She busted through the swinging gate and was on the back of her bike before the others had a chance to regroup.
Sere gave one good kick of the starter and had the Triton roaring to life. Gunning the throttle, she peppered the other motorcycles with gravel from her rear tire before finding traction on the narrow lane of pavement that stretched out of town. Like a racehorse let out of the gate, the motorcycle settled back on its rear shocks and tore off down the road.
The others weren’t far behind. If her café racer took to the chase like a thoroughbred, the heavy Harleys acted like Clydesdales hammering the asphalt, making far more noise than speed. Within a mile, the thunderous roar of the manly V-twins had died down to a pathetic whimper on the breeze. But as Sere left the heavy cruisers in the dust, the ominous howl of a high-performance Ducati grew in intensity.
Fuck a Duc. Sere leaned low across the curved gas tank to cut down on wind resistance and gave her bike every bit of throttle it could handle. She’d never be able to outrun or outmaneuver the monster on her tail. She needed to think fast if she didn’t want to end up as roadkill. I didn’t see that bike when I left the bar. It must be Bartender Smooth’s ride. He’d likely have the speed demon parked out back and aimed at the road for a quick pursuit. I need to stop underestimating that dude.
She downshifted and made a quick right-hander onto a gravel road to get off the even pavement. Hopefully, the guy on her ass would have enough love for his crotch rocket to avoid having it pelted with rocks. Gunning the engine, she raised a cloud of pebbles and dust with her tires to make the narrow path as uninviting as possible.
But the high-pitched howl grew louder.
Damn you. Why can’t you take no for an answer? Just like a redneck. Think, girl. How do I dump this dumb-ass suitor? She scanned the dark path ahead with little optimism. The sound of chainsaws, smell of freshly cut lumber, and intense glare of high-wattage floodlights broke the heavy vegetation to her left. At least I’m not alone, she thought, though she suspected the biker dudes back at the bar had friends among the night road crew. I’ll have to risk it.
She swung her bike down the first heavily wheel-rutted logging road she came to. A semi with its windshield caked with dust blasted an irate air horn at her impudence. The screeching of the big truck’s brakes was sure to alert ol’ Smoothie of her maneuver. With barely enough room to squeeze by, she angled her bike between the truck trailer’s massive iron brackets—which were loaded down with tree trunks—and the roadbed. Peering through the undergrowth, she saw the bulk of the road-building equipment in a holler below. The shallow land formation cleared of vegetation looked as though a giant had used a spoon to scoop out the center of a mound of mashed potatoes, complete with a gravy-mud lake in the middle. Perfect.
Instead of sticking to the truck route that skirted the rim of the holler, she aimed her bike along a dried-out streambed that snaked over the edge into the valley. She only had to maintain her grasp of her bucking machine for a hundred feet as the narrow tires hit every rock and rut before she came on the access road that paralleled the logging road she’d left. Rather than continuing in front of the pursuing bike, she turned into the path of the rider above. Staying low and sticking close to the wall of the ravine so as not to be seen, she made as much noise as possible.
From the other side of the bowl-shaped canyon, she caught the familiar sound of her valiant Triton engine echoing off the bare cliff opposite the direction she was headed. If Bartender Smooth was relying on what he heard, he’d believe she’d just darted well ahead of him but that he was still tracking her in the right direction. From the roadway above, the engine howl transitioned to a piston-driven scream. Apparently, Smoothie doesn’t take rejection well.
She continued tearing up the dirt-and-gravel road until the sound of the Ducati was just a distant angry buzz. It wasn’t until she’d returned to the well-paved road heading away from Bubba’s Bar that she realized the hot moisture that wetted her inner calf wasn’t the result of her exertion. One touch to the thick oil confirmed her worst fear. Fucking head gasket. Like a bad dog satisfying himself on her leg, the Triton was spewing hot fluid all over her leather pants. She let off the throttle and pulled in the clutch to coast the bike down the long, winding road into the next town.
The bike’s momentum only took her as far as Kelly’s Diner, at the outskirts of the small hamlet. Sere eyed a weathered gray pickup truck out front with Big Larry’s Machine Shop painted on the cab door. She hoped Big Larry wasn’t another fucking biker.
Sere appreciated the bonding experience people felt when sharing a meal, as if they were saying, We’re all human. We’ve all gotta eat. Of course, as a resident of hell’s dimension, that wasn’t strictly true for her. But she had to admit, a good cup of coffee and a slice of warm pie were about the best experiences life had to offer, even if the sustenance was only for show.
She rummaged through her saddlebag for a fresh pair of jeans and underwear. The two-foot-long rattlesnake curled up her arm. “I don’t have time to play right now. Stay on guard in case someone tries something funny.” She peeled the body-heat-loving serpent off her arm and coiled it back on top of her undies.
As she walked into the diner, she performed her usual scan of customers, potential threats, and possible improvised weapons. Unlike the bar, the diner’s booths were filled with happy families and the counter lined with overweight customers enjoying dinner, which didn’t present much of a concern. She stood in front of the Wait to Be Seated sign while a scrawny little fella in coveralls paid his tab at the register.
The matronly woman behind the counter flashed Sere a welcoming smile. “I’ll be right with you, hon.”
The guy paying his bill pulled cash out with his grease-smudged hands. “Thanks for the grub, K
elly.”
“Same time tomorrow, Larry? I’ll have a fresh batch of apple pies for dinner.”
“Yummy.” As he turned toward Sere, she read the shop label on his blue-and-white-striped coveralls: Big Larry’s.
“You wouldn’t happen to be the guy with the machine shop, would you?” she asked.
“That’s me. From the look of your pants, I guess you might be in need of some help.”
Sere made another scan of the restaurant to make sure there wasn’t a much bigger Larry Senior lurking in the bathroom hallway. “Are you the owner?” she asked dubiously.
His low-pitched single chuckle sounded well rehearsed. “I get that a lot. Either I can have a look at your problem while you change clothes, or you can join me while I tell you my life’s story. Your choice.”
Kelly reached out for Sere’s change of attire. “You can leave those here if you want, hon. Larry will have your motor diagnosed in far less time than it will take you to clean up. He’s too kind to tell you he’s in a hurry, even though he always is. I swear that guy lives in his workshop. While you’re out there, I’ll find you a bar of grease-cutting soap and some wash rags.”
Sere handed over her fresh jeans with underwear wrapped inside. “Thanks.”
Larry held the door open for Sere, though whether out of chivalry or a desire to keep his favorite dining spot oil free, she couldn’t tell. The slick that enveloped her leg seemed to be spreading like swamp mange.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked.
She cocked her ear down the two-lane highway, fearful of hearing the roar of motorcycle engines. “My bike blew a head gasket.”
Larry let out a long whistle at the sight of the motorcycle half-coated in oil. “I would say so. Haven’t seen a café racer like this in a coon’s age.”