Monsters in the Midwest ( Book 1): Wisconsin Vamp

by Scott Burtness

  “Wait a ‘sec. Did you just order a bloody Mary? A goddamn bloody Mary?”

  Huh, thought Herb. He’s right. It’s not like there’s actual blood in there. As he thought the word blood, his stomach growled long and deep.

  “Oh crappers, Herb. You ain’t gonna hurl are you? I though you said you felt better,” Dallas remarked, stepping back.

  Still trying to hide his fangs, Herb quickly turned his back on the guys. “Oh yeah. No, I’m good. Feeling great. But yeah.” He forced a quick laugh as he started to walk away. “Bloody Mary. What was I thinking? I’ll, ah, be right back.” His attention caught up in hiding his fickle fangs, he walked right into one of the Vikings fan’s pool stick, causing the stick to knock his beer off the rail of the table.

  “What gives?” the man snapped. “You gotta problem? Goddamn cheeseheads.” Chest puffed like an absurd purple and white rooster, he shoved his chin toward Herb.

  Snick, Herb’s fangs were gone. Well, not gone, but just regular teeth again. “Holy cats! Sorry guy. I wasn’t paying attention. Not trying to start anything,” Herb stammered. “How about, hey, I’ll grab you a beer. What were you drinking?”

  “Beverages shouldn’t be on the tables,” offered Stanley. “N-not your fault that guy put his beer on the table Herb. If Stein saw that, he’d buh-bounce his head off the dumpster, he would. Beer ruins the felt. Screws up the English on the buh-ball. I lost twenty bucks to Fancy Dan last month ‘cause I couldn’t get the English.”

  Mullet turned his ire toward Stanley. “Something to s-s-say, retard?”

  Dallas took that moment to make his presence known. Stepping up and placing himself squarely between Stanley and the Vikings fan, he held out a meaty palm and turned his head back toward Stanley.

  “It was ten bucks, not twenty, and you lost because one, Fancy Dan’s a hustler and I told you that and two, you suck at pool.” Turning his ice-blue eyes back toward the angry mullet guy, Dallas loomed. There wasn’t another word for it. He technically was leaning, but that description didn’t do it justice. A lean is just sort-of being at an angle. But a loom… There’s violence suggested in a loom, danger. Herb always knew Dallas was a big guy, but it never ceased to amaze him when Dallas decided to show that he was a big guy, and looming did just that.

  “Call my buddy a retard again and I’ll use your front teeth to scrape the mud outta my boot treads. Herby here spilled your beer. Not intentional and he apologized, so quit your posturing. Besides, the beer here’s really cheap, so you’re only out like what, two bucks?” The mulleted Vikings fan started to bristle but Dallas ratcheted up his loom, bringing his nose to within a few inches of the ruddy-faced Minnesotan.

  “Now, Herb here made a right nice offer to replace your beverage and he’s gonna follow through on that, ain’t you Herbert? Not ‘cause he needs to, but because he’s just a swell guy that way. And when he gets back with that beer, we’ll all toast to accidents and happy endings. Sound like a plan? Hell, maybe we’ll end up such good buds that we’ll play a few games of pool.” Leaning back, Dallas’s face broke into a welcoming smile. “Whatdaya say?”

  And just like that, crisis averted. The guy shook his head, dislodging a few dandruff flakes, and grumbled, “Sure,” to Herb, adding a begrudging, “Thanks,” after catching a glare from Dallas. Herb stared at Dallas for a moment in awe. Dallas had something, you had to admit. Loud, crass, egomaniacal to a fault, sure, but there was definitely something. As Herb made his way back toward the bar, memories bubbled up. Dallas tying Herb to a tree, but then bloodying the nose of the kid who took Herb’s Trapper Keeper. Dallas daring Herb to eat a bunch of Pop Rocks and slam a can of Pepsi and then laughing ‘til snot ran in long gooey rivulets down his nose, but being the only one to stand up and clap when Herb tried to do David Copperfield at the 10th grade talent show. Dallas getting half the football team to help him prop Herb’s car up against a tree like the space shuttle preparing for take-off, but then paying for the tow truck to get it back down safely.

  Dallas was a strange one to be sure, dishing out mockery and mayhem at every chance. But there was that weird protectiveness, too. Herb couldn’t count the number of times Dallas had pranked him, punk’d him or embarrassed the holy hell out of him. But he also couldn’t count how many times Dallas had picked him up when he was down or saved the day when Herb had made a mess of things.

  These thoughts still working their way around his brain in well-worn ruts, he reached the bar, mindful to stay far at the end so as not to land opposite the back wall mirror. Helen had just filled a glass pint with ice when Herb placed his hand on hers.

  “Uh, sorry Helen. I changed my mind. Nothing for me and a Coors Light for the purple guy over there.”

  “You sure?” Helen purred, leaning forward, ample breasts resting on the bar. “Could be that this round’s on the house. If you want it.” Still leaning forward, she reached over to the olive dish, nimbly plucked one with cherry-tipped fingers, popped the olive between her lips and proceeded to use her finger to slowly push the olive all the way in. Full lips closed around her finger as she slid it further into her mouth and then slowly drew it out again. “You want it, don’t you?”

  Flustered, Herb giggled nervously and rocked back for a moment, worried that if she leaned any closer he might need to slide the pillow a little further down. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to look at the worn surface of the bar and think of old men playing hockey. That usually worked... “No, I’m, ah. I’m ok. Thanks though. Just a, um.”

  He flicked his gaze up for a moment, a habit of human interaction. That brief moment of acknowledgement and apology he engaged in a thousand times a day. Just a quick glimpse followed by an apologetic bob of the head or small wave of the hand letting that other person know that it was ok, he didn’t mean to be a bother and in fact, it was all most likely his fault anyway. It was so second nature, so very Herb, that he couldn’t do anything else. Smiling wanly, he glanced up and in that fraction of a fraction of a moment, their eyes met.

  The sensation was nothing Herb could ever have ever expected. In that perfect simpatico moment, Herb knew two unalienable truths, that Helen was his completely and that he was hungry. Inundating her with his gaze, Herb slid through the server opening in the bar and glided forward. She stood and followed him, a sunflower tracking her own personal sun. Stein and the townies at the other end of the bar were oblivious to the building maelstrom of hormones and pheromones mere feet away, but Herb felt like he was stepping into the center of a tornado. Violent forces spun and whirled all around, yet he and Helen stood in perfect, crystalline stillness. It was more than the eye of the storm. It was the thinning ice before the first crack, the mountainside before the avalanche. Herb reached out a hand and took Helen’s, closed the distance between their bodies. She guided him through the swinging door to the bar’s modest kitchen, past stainless steel and Formica countertops, past cases of beer stacked next to boxes of corn nuts and pretzels. They moved as one toward the only place that might offer some privacy, the walk-in cooler. Helen slid Herb’s hand down her hip, around her back, drawing him in. Even the 40 degree air couldn’t cool the fever burning between them. Eyes still locked, Herb pushed her back against the shelves, leaned in and kissed her hard. His fangs cut her lip, the thin trickle of blood touching his lower lip like a match to dry tinder. Breath quickening, he kissed her cheek, ear, neck.

  Helen gasped when his teeth cut into her flesh. As his lips melded to her skin, she moaned, a deep, primal sound welling up from deep inside her, the sound driving her body tighter against his. The pillow separating them compressed as she clung to him, fingers grasping, nails raking hard into his back. Herb sucked and swallowed, felt the blood flow from her neck across his tongue. The harder he sucked, the louder she moaned, shudders coursing through her body. His other hand pushed up through her hair to grip the back of her skull, holding it tilted slightly to the side as he drank deep from the well of her neck.

  “Oooohhh, kinky...” It
was barely a whisper, her lips brushing his ear. The faintest sigh of a ghost caressing a still-warm lover’s cheek in the middle of a long and lonely night. Her body convulsed again, her hips thrusting forward as she wrapped a leg around his waist. For a moment, Herb lost his balance and shot out a hand to catch himself. The side of his hand snagged on a sharp piece of metal shelving, leaving a wide, shallow cut. He pulled his head back and sucked in a deep breath at the sudden pain. Helen’s wide eyes latched on to his again. Hips still moving convulsively, she took his hand, pulled it to her mouth, licked at the blood on his palm. “I like kinky,” she intoned in a throaty whisper.

  Herb’s fangs snicked back to their normal size as he drew back, inhaling loudly, a newborn taking its first real breath. Still holding his hand, Helen sagged against the shelves of the walk-in cooler, a dizzy, devilish smile on her face. Herb watched her pupils swell as her gaze went far, far away. In a distracted sort of way, she lapped at his bloody hand like a child with an ice cream cone. Still holding her, Herb gently lowered her to the floor, ecstasy doused by his sudden panic. Helen sat on the floor of the cooler, eyes focused on something no one else in this plane could clearly see. She’d stopped licking his hand when he pulled it away, but now her breath was coming in short, fast pants. One finger traced indeterminate patterns across the skin above her breasts, while the other started to slide up and down her inner thigh. Twin rivulets of crimson ran down the side of her neck toward the v-neckline of her shirt. Still connected in some intimate, unexplainable way, Herb could feel her gentling bobbing on a sea of contentment, every conscious worry washed clean, leaving a shell of herself, a lingering image on the back of an eyelid after staring full-on at the sun.

  He rocked back on his heels, senses whirring, thoughts racing. Shifting forward again, Herb searched for a way to bring her back. The cut on his palm had closed, but so too had the bite on her lip. With dawning realization, he gently bit his fingertip until fresh blood welled up, then lightly circled the punctures marring the otherwise unblemished expanse of skin on her neck. Helen’s body convulsed again, shudders finally subsiding as she looked at him with the eyes of a drunken lover. Where Herb’s finger had been a moment before, unbroken skin now stretched, marked only by a smudge of crimson.

  Unsure of what to do next, but sure the guys would notice something was up if he didn’t get back there soon, he wracked his brain for ideas. Suddenly he remembered Stein looking toward him and then past him, and then not seeing him at all. Was that just dumb luck? Or maybe, just maybe...

  “Um. Helen? Hey, Helen?” Her eyes met his and once again everything fell to nothingness around them, a vast empty space they moved through in perfect isolation, perfect union. Resisting all manner of urges and trying to block out the incessant whispers, he pushed on.

  “Maybe you should, um. Huh. So. We had a nice time, it was very, um, nice. But you really shouldn’t remember. Us. This. The, well, the sexy-like stuff, and the biting. Definitely forget the biting. Ok. So just. Um. Forget that you and me, that I ever, well. You came back here for some. Ah. Corn nuts for Stanley. But you won’t remember us being back here, ok? Ok, Helen?”

  Helen smiled, nodded. Standing, she moved with the careful steps of a sleepwalker to grab a bag of corn nuts. Hoping for the best, Herb quietly reversed out of the space, crept back behind the bar. Surreptitiously grabbing a couple of cold beers out of the cooler, he worked his way toward the pool tables in the back. Stein and the handful of regulars still jawed about the weather that one year when it was really bad, the TV still spouted worthless ads for worthless things, and Herb crackled with raw energy. The whole incident had taken less than five minutes, but everything had changed.

  Chapter 16

  “Nice of you to join us.” Dallas took the beers from Herb, handed one to the Vikings fan as agreed upon. “We were gonna start without you.”

  Herb frowned. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize we were playing cutthroat. I’ll rack.” Herb moved around to the change slot, fishing a few quarters out of his pocket.

  “Not us, them. We’re playin’ doubles Herby. You and me versus the purple super fans here. You can still rack, though. Probably be the best part of your game.” Dallas grinned like a hyena and threw a conspiratorial wink at the Vikings fans, followed by a long pull of his beer.

  “Oh, uh. Sure. You betcha.” Herb shrugged, slid the quarters into the slots, and jammed the slide hard into the side of the table. The released balls started to drop and roll to the far end with the sound of distant thunder, a sound that always preceded the hustle.

  Dallas loved hustling, especially Vikings fans. The usual routine had Herb playing his heart out while Dallas half-assed it, putting on a show of getting more and more irate. Since Herb playing his best was just slightly worse than Dallas half-assin’ it, the other guys would usually run the table on them. Then Dallas would swear and kick and double down on the next game, only to win by a hair, setting up a third game. If the other guys weren’t actually good enough to run the table, Dallas could usually ensure he botched the first game with a well-placed scratch shot, followed by a shocked, “Sunofabitch! How the Sam hell did that happen?” All things considered, it was a pretty good show, one that had paid their bar tab more than a few times in the past.

  Herb liked the hustle. It always made him nervous, living on the edge like that, the kind of nervous like when you get back too much change at the drive through, or when the light slips from yellow to red when you’re halfway through the intersection. But it was a good nervous, getting something you probably shouldn’t have been able to. Also, playing a hustle with Dallas meant he was part of something bigger than just a couple of guys shooting pool. He was part of a team. It was a team on a mission, a mission that required a covert plan, and that plan required flawless execution from everyone involved. He liked that feeling, being on the inside of the covert plan. For the plan to work and the team to emerge victorious, it was imperative that Herb contribute 110-percent, and do what he was really good at, which in this case just happened to be sucking at pool.

  Herb finished the rack and walked back around the table to stand near Stanley. Dallas spread his arms wide and bowed to their opponents. “Gentlemen, be my guests. Break away.”

  “It’s Stu and Donnie,” said the one Herb had bumped earlier, turning a thumb first to himself and then his partner. “And don’t mind if I do.”

  “Hope you shoot better than your boys catch.” Dallas offered politely.

  “I shoot better than your girls can tackle,” Stu snipped in reply.

  “Uh huh. Like you tackled those Super Bowls you got into. Remind me, how many did your purple pals win again?”

  The vein in Stu’s forehead started to throb. “Shut up,” he grumbled, lining up his cue for the break.

  “More like shut out,” Dallas added thoughtfully.

  Stu slapped his cue down on the table. Donnie put a hand on Stu’s arm. “Relax Stu. Don’t let him get to you. It’s just a friendly game of pool, right?”

  Stu shook off Donnie’s hand, giving Dallas one last glare. Dallas returned the look, all innocence. As Stu and Donnie turned their attention back to the table, Dallas tossed a quick half-smile and wink toward Herb before letting his face go blank again. Stu reared back on the cue and rammed it forward. The cue ball shot across the felt, connecting with the triangle of balls with a satisfying crack, sending stripes and solids haphazardly around the table. As a handful of seconds ticked by, first one, then two solids and a stripe rolled into pockets around the table. “Solids,” called Stu, lining up for his next shot. An easy tap, and another solid jumped down a pocket to join its friends.

  “Guess the Vike’s ain’t off to such a bad start, huh.” Stu worked his way around the table, lined up his next shot and snapped the cue forward. The five made an orange streak off the side rail, only to catch the corner of the pocket and spin off to the side.

  “Shit,” muttered Stu, returning to his beer.

  Dallas turned to Herb an
d belched loudly. “Go for it, dude. Dude? Um, Herb?”

  It was beautiful. The minuscule threads of the felt, the light dusting of chalk, like the moors on the first frost of autumn. Each ball a splash of eye-searing color thundering across the pristine expanse of green, boulders of import crashing in chaos and violence while thin, invisible threads of physics tied them unwilling to this plane, forced them toward their destiny. Each spinning, crashing journey a product of violence and intent, pushed onward by the incomprehensible hand of fate toward an endless descent into darkness. Creation lay spread out before him, beauty and terror so complete that Herb knew his heart would burst for trying to hold it all inside.

  “Herb!” Dallas’s cue whipped by, whacking Herb’s shoulder and snapping him out of his reverie. Herb grimaced, feeling like something terribly important had just slipped his grasp. Lining up, he took a shot and watched mystified as the balls seemed to take on a life of their own. The cue ball made clean white lines and perfect protracted angles as the 9, 15 and 12-balls all dropped. A split second after finally coming to rest, the 13 went down and the cue ball rolled gently past the 8-ball, leaving a hair’s breadth between them. Next the 11, perfect leave. The 10 dropped with a satisfying thunk and the cue ball rolled unencumbered across the felt to a gentle stop.

  Dallas stood in silence. The Vikings fans were purple statues, Stu with his fingers pushed halfway back through his coarse mullet, Donnie with his beer forgotten mere inches from his slack mouth. Even Stanley couldn’t find the wherewithal to stutter. It was an exquisite lie. Mathematicians, engineers, architects would have wept at the perfect alignment of the cue ball, 8-ball and pocket. A soft swoosh, clack and thump and the 8-balled rolled through the table’s intestines while the cue ball coasted to a gentle stop at the lip of the pocket. Five men signed in unison, with three of the sighs becoming whoops of laughter while the other two devolved into curses of disbelief and disgust.