Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4)

by Mark Henry

  “Blaggee,” I garbled, the man's fingers caught up around my tongue, still twitching.

  Wendy scrambled on the floor for my purse, dragging it up my leg roughly and plumbing its depths for a plastic freezer bag. She snapped it open it and held it out for me.

  I spat Boyoncé’s hand into it, grinning. “Snack for later.”

  “Sick,” Abuelita said, her attention quickly returning to her phone and her videos.

  “Who knew go-go boys could be so vicious?” I pointed the car toward the freeway onramp.

  Both Wendy and Gil raised their hands, sheepishly.

  “Well, I didn't get the memo.”

  Gil climbed onto his knees, watching over the backbench at the cars coming up behind us and filling my rearview mirror with vampire ass. “I'm just surprised they let that whole dismemberment slow them down. The Golden Boys don’t let anything stop them from achieving their goals.”

  “Jesus Christ, are you the president of their fan club? Do you get email alerts and discounts?”

  “No,” Gil said, defensively. “But, I’ve heard stories.”

  “What kind of stories?” Wendy asked.

  His eyes grew dark, his expression grim. “Oh, I don’t know, only…murder! Teabagging suffocations. Go-go gorings. Glory hole mutilations. They call us monsters. But the Golden Boys are the real evil.”

  Wendy and I stared at each other in disbelief. Gil sounded like one of those crazy yokels in a horror movie, eyes wide with some presupposed horror. “You’re all gonna die! You’re all doomed!” We did what any true friends would do in the presence of an overly dramatic diatribe, busted up laughing. There might have been pointing, too. If our tear ducts had worked anymore I’m sure we’d have been wiping our cheeks and damning him for ruining our mascara.

  “Seriously, Gil? Four ordinary humans in gold tap pants scare you? You? Did you forget you’re a vampire and can tear out their throats?”

  “While nailing them,” Wendy added.

  “Exactly, you can multitask your supernatural abilities. Get your rocks off while filling your veins with the red stuff. There’s nothing to be afraid of from a few exotic dancers.”

  Gil sighed heavily. “Then why did you run, too?”

  “Um, because y’all bitches left me alone and this is Versace. I’m not going to risk ruining an outfit to prove a point.”

  “Right,” he nodded. Gil wasn’t buying it.

  I grabbed the Ziploc and shook it. “What’s this then?”

  Gil shrugged and looked away, grinding his teeth. He hadn’t looked so uncomfortable since he got that undead venereal disease and started pissing blood.

  “They’re not supernatural, Gil. They’re human,” I said in my most empathetic tone—its effectiveness was anyone’s guess, really. “Or, at least that one tasted like long pig.”

  (Footnote: long pig is a term coined by cannibals to indicate that human flesh bears a startlingly similar flavor profile to succulent pork. And it’s true. Don’t believe me? Try it. Preferably with a honey crisp apple gastrique.)

  Wendy unzipped the baggie, plucking a thread of sinew off the stripper’s wrist. She dangled it over her gaping maw as though feeding a mouse to a python. Wendy gave it a few assessing chews, before nodding. “Yep. Human.”

  “Whatever,” Gil said without turning back to them. “They must have a sixth sense or something.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  The next few seconds should have passed by in a hazy slow-motion blur like they do in the movies, but no. The car shifted so violently toward the median, I thought our heads would topple from our necks and roll around the floorboard like spare change and bottle tops. A crunching sound echoed from the direction of the impact, just beyond Abuelita, as though she were eating the crispiest potato chip ever, mouth open. On purpose.

  I craned my head in that direction.

  The steel hook was the first thing to catch my eye. Boyoncé hung precariously from the driver’s side window, shaking his bloody stump at us, at me, a fresh butcher’s meat hook jutting from the flayed skin and sinew. He really needed to get that looked at, by someone other than me, or at the very least secure it with a sturdy wrapping of duct tape. It wobbled feebly.

  It didn’t look that delicious when there was a hand attached. My foot crept to the brake.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Wendy screamed, reaching her foot across to pound down the accelerator and my foot, since it was kind of in her way.

  The Volvo lurched forward and I got a look at exactly what was following us. A purple corvette straight out of a Prince video, though the symbol on the hood was likely the result of having sat beneath a shedding pine tree than any intentional obtuseness.

  “I show them,” Abuelita growled, pausing her video and grabbing her gat.

  “Oh shit,” Gil ducked.

  Wendy grinned wickedly and I just sort of swerved, as you do when bullets are about to start flying and you can’t figure out what the hell to do. The highway jogged to the left then right and I was certain I was going to flip the Volvo. The crazed Chola got off her first round and missed. Apparently.

  Malibu Barbie flanked us, shook his bloody hook in my direction.

  “Your people are insane, Gil.”

  “Don't box me in with the Golden Boys. Anal sex doesn't make you insane or Wendy would be wearing a straight jacket instead of that fake Gucci.”

  “It isn't fake and...wait, did you just say...I don't do anything related to the brown area. No. Just no.”

  “That's not what I heard,” Gil said, a little snort of laughter escaping.

  “Well, you talk to rather seedy individuals, mostly over the internet because you're a fucking flower in the attic at this point. Too bad you don't have a Chris to call your very own, Cathy.”

  The car took another hit, this time from directly behind, but instead of freaking out, I got the bright idea to slam on the brakes, the Corvette scooped up under the Volvo's bumper for a moment and all of us screamed, particularly Gil, but not Abuelita who continued to fire out of her window, aiming at nothing in particular and certainly not hitting any of the Golden Boys who had somehow managed to put the top down on the convertible and were swinging their arms in the air like they had lassos, also hooting and hollering in a way much more suited for the dance floor than a high speed chase. They really needed some instruction on proper villainy.

  I kicked the pedal to the floor and pulled off of their hood, the Volvo dropping to the concrete with a jarring thud. I stood on the accelerator as we tore away from the go-go boys, the corvette's speed dwindling.

  “I think we've lost them,” I said, but no one responded.

  Wendy sat beside me, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, mouth scrunched up like cat butt and clearly pissed at Gil's accusation.

  I decided to intervene—God knows why, it never benefits me. “There's nothing to be ashamed of Wendy. There are a lot of nerve endings in the anus, or so I've heard. If that's what you like, I say more power to you. Let ’em fuck that ass. If anything, it ups your sexy quotient.”

  Wendy sneered. “It's an exit,” she hissed.

  “Whatever!” Gil said and then coughed. “Booty Love.”

  Wendy spun, her index finger rigid, twitching. “Don't you ever call me that again.”

  Gil's hands shot up protectively. “Fine. I'm just repeating what I've heard.”

  “Seriously, though,” I said. “You have to be careful with butt sex, Wendy. Your pooper isn't getting any more flexible post death; you might prolapse. Even the finest Natori lingerie can't make that look cute.”

  Wendy huffed, turned away and Gil had the good sense to shut his mouth. For once.

  Chapter 4

  Back on the road, I called my ex-assistant, Marithé—she’s not required to do anything for me, but we have some perceived blackmail thing going on that I don’t quite understand but take advantage of, of course. I’ve only ever nodded coyly when she suggested that I knew some damni
ng information. Truth is, over the course of three years in my employ, I didn’t really know anything about her or her personal life. She could be a vampire hunter or an accountant, hooker or nun—though, I probably would have noticed a drab habit and sent her home for a more appropriate office outfit. And while we’re on the subject, why are those outfits floor length? A husband likes to see a little leg, even if he is an omnipresent being. Now, other than a brief stint as Ricardo’s girlfriend, Marithé seemed to be largely sexless. But whatever it was weighing heavy on her mind must have been atrocious. And in our world—one with a set of morals you could count on a single hand—that was really saying something.

  “Did you make the arrangements with the hotel?” I asked, flicking the turn signal and pointing Wendy to the glove compartment.

  “They couldn’t accommodate you, so I had to make alternate arrangements. But…”

  “But?”

  Wendy popped open the hidden bar in my dash and squealed with delight. “Hooch!” she cried and desperately began her shotgun mixology duties.

  “You’re not going to like it,” Marithé went on.

  “Oh Goddamn it. Not a B and B is it? Tell me it’s not a bed and breakfast.”

  “It’s the only thing I could come up with on such short notice.”

  “No!” Wendy and Gil shouted in unison.

  Marithé babbled on hurriedly about the establishments’ stellar attributes, one of which was a basement where Gil could hide out during the day. What didn’t occur to her was that bed and breakfasts were the most risky of accommodations for supernaturals, particularly ones with certain needs. The innkeepers were often overly involved, interested, nosy motherfuckers who like to watch guests eat their damn muffins and probably not a rack of human ribs.

  I nodded, horrified, myself. “Just text me the address. And if I need something else, I can count on you, right, Marithé? I can count on you…can’t I?”

  “Y-yes.” The phone clicked off. Still terrified of me.

  Good.

  Wendy heaved a sulking sigh into the air, while Gil’s glare reflected his despair at sub-par accommodations all over the side window. Only Abuelita seemed unaffected by the news, grinning as she was into the glare of her phone, watching telenovellas on Youtube and snorting with laughter.

  It occurred to me that over the years, the three of us had actually become more similar rather than keeping our own unique character traits that drew us to one another—and by that, I mean Wendy and Gil were acting exactly like me, and I wasn’t loving it. It was probably one of the reasons we weren’t getting along.

  Time for a big fat come-to-Jesus.

  “How about this?” I stabbed my hand inside my Birkin and dug for my secret Wendy weapon, tossing the king-size Twix bar into her lap. “Chew on that while I take the floor. It seems that things have changed between the three of us and I don’t know about you, Gil. But I’m pretty sure we’re reacting to Wendy’s stress over her new role as Johnny Knuckles.”

  Wendy sneered. “I don’t get it.”

  I waved my hand in her general vicinity. “This whole Scarface routine you’ve got going on has really buried the fun-loving blonde corpse we knew and loved. You’re getting bitchy. That’s my role.”

  Gil chimed in. “That’s true, girl. You’ve got to embrace the fun parts of your job. After all, you’re like the vampire pharmacist. People love you.”

  “Wrong!” Wendy said, spinning back to stare Gil down. “They love what I have. They love the cloud. I’m incidental. And clearly being targeted by someone who wants to squash my empire.”

  “So, it’s an empire, now?” I reached over and snatched up a martini, savoring the juniper heavy gin, the perfectly spritzed vermouth. “This cocktail is aces, by the way.”

  She nodded. “Hell yeah. It’s a motherfucking empire.”

  “Word,” Abuelita chimed in from the back.

  Gil stabbed a blood juice box with a straw, slurped. “What if this is about something else entirely?” he asked, licking his lips.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The bitch that stole your shipment, didn’t rush it away to some secret Seattle location to start undermining your business and stealing your clientele. She took that shit on a cruise, like her elderly mother. If it’s going to end up in San Francisco or L.A. then vamps would still be looking to you for more cloud. You’re still in charge. You’re still needed. At least in Seattle.”

  Wendy thought about it, absently tearing open the Twix bar—a habit with potentially explosive consequences—and sniffing the chocolaty goodness. “I suppose you’re right. But I still need my shit.”

  “Of course, you do.” I patted her thigh. “Let’s just try to have fun. Chill out and know that we’re going to end up taking that bitch down in the long run.”

  Her plump lips stretched into a thin smile and for a second I caught a glimpse of the old Wendy, trapped inside her new “all business” exterior. She brought the chocolate to her mouth and didn’t so much bite it as inhale it directly into her pie-hole.

  I gave Gil a wink. He volleyed one back.

  Little did he know, his shit was on deck next.

  The Pacific Coast Highway, 101, begins at a juncture with Interstate 5 and cuts a winding swath through farmland and forest alike. Not heavily trafficked from the look of it—the only thing I noticed on the drive besides the fact that Wendy’s chola had a wheezy snore when she slept—was Las Felicitas’ healthy billboard budget. Nearly every mile marker featured some reason to live there—Spacious Homes! Waterfront Living! —And none of the reasons we were going—Wholesale Slaughter of the Innocents! Delicious Sweetbreads! But as we passed Aberdeen and traveled south, I started to develop a little hope that my event would be well attended. Sand Flea Days was in full swing according to the banners, a festival that I’d one, never heard of, and two, would never attend unless someone either paid me or had a gun to my head, but seemed to be an honest to goodness draw. P.S. What do you even wear to an event that celebrates a bug you can hardly see but which scars your extremities with hideous red welts? Certainly not Versace.

  “Seriously, did they make those with magic markers?” I threw my hand out toward the flapping tarp hanging over the corner of the latest Las Felicitas signage.

  “Ooh,” Wendy cooed. “That one said Miss Sand Flea Pageant!”

  “No,” I said, chuckling. “That’s not possible, is it?”

  “Oh it is.” Gil stabbed himself between the seats, cell phone at the ready and started reading. “Join us for a celebration of all things beachy. That’s what it says, it says beachy. As we kick off Sand Flea Days with the crowning of Miss Sand Flea.” He stopped, flicked over to his large clock face on the phone. 9:30, it read. “If you floor it, we’ll be able to catch the last hour of pageantry!”

  I didn’t have to be told twice. I stepped on the gas and the tires ate into the concrete, rocketing the little Volvo SUV forward into the night.

  “This is going to be amazing and ludicrous. I can't believe our luck.”

  “You three are disgusting,” Abuelita sneered, the mole on her upper lip connecting with her nostril. “Making fun of those poor girls.”

  “Making fun?” I feigned shock. “We’re going to scout out food options, or in this case…snacks.”

  “You just ate, I can smell it on you.”

  Gil nodded. “Smells like hippie and shame.”

  I sniffed and looked at Wendy, whose nose was equally scrunched in offense. “I don't smell anything, except my Issey Miyake.”

  “Well,” Gil said.

  “Well what?” Wendy spun.

  “You two must have picked a couple of stinkers. They hadn't seen a bar of soap in days, weeks maybe. I could smell them a mile away. And I'm guessing at least one was an adolescent boy so it goes without saying that his hygiene was already suspect.”

  I tried not to think about the dreadlock I'd freed from my throat. “Whatever, Gil.”

  Ahead of them a banner stretc
hed across the two-lane highway that announced they'd arrived in Las Felicitas and none too soon as the revelry was already underway. Bunting clung to every black wrought-iron rail and window sash like icing on the Spanish themed town. Tents lined the sidewalks crammed with whatever crap people could carve out of driftwood and those little clay pots with cork stoppers that proclaimed Bingo Money and Divorce Money and Hooker Money—I made that last one up, obviously. Any prostitute worth her salt will gut a john that paid in nickels.

  I slowed to a stop in the alley across from the Felicity Theater in all its Mission-styled glory. Stucco walls soared to a pitch of red tiles and the wooden doors appeared to be absolutely ancient, studded with black bolts and bands of rusted metal.

  The whole town reminded me of Balboa Park in San Diego, but this old world Mexico was polished to a proud shine by Disney Imagineers and not migrant farm workers.

  “A quarter 'til. We’re going to make it.” I tapped the Volvo's clock and grinned. “See how I made that shit happen?”

  But I was talking to myself as Wendy and Gil had already bolted from the car and were crossing the median before I could give Abuelita a final glowering gaze and follow.

  A light mist cooled the night air and carried on it a salty aroma, more than the sea could manage, as though I’d nestled up against a sweaty scrotum. Scott used to roll in from the gym completely coated in the same damp smell and try to embrace me, or worse, coax me into unnatural acts, meaning anything that involved sweaty man parts bouncing around the vicinity of my nose and mouth. So, no.

  Just no.

  By the time I launched myself toward the crosswalk, the only person on the street was a surly looking youth wearing a flat-brimmed cap with a huge blunt tucked under his ear and jeans so saggy he was lucky to have the arms of a homunculus to fit his hands in the pockets.

  I dug in my Birkin for my lipstick, which always seemed to migrate to the bottom with the change. By the time I'd reapplied, blotted and glanced back at the boy, his hand had already clamped on the Birkin’s strap.