Monsters in the Midwest ( Book 1): Wisconsin Vamp

by Scott Burtness

  Chapter 32

  “I’ll bet you can do it faster and harder than anyone here!” The voice’s owner worked her way to the front of the crowd. Hungry eyes peered out from beneath bleach blonde feathered bangs. A skin-tight, low cut t-shirt showcased an impressive set of curves, and long, fishnet clad legs stretched from beneath a swath of black sequenced fabric that almost had the thread count to qualify as a skirt. Herb’s eyes reached a jaunty pair of bright red pumps before reversing course and sliding all the way back up to those eyes. Hands on her hips, lips crooked up in a seductive smile, she continued. “Now c’mon over here and lemme give you some sugar for good luck.”

  The laughter and cheers reached a fever pitch. Geez, can we just get through a single night without Dallas taking a chick-break? Herb turned with every intention of telling Dallas to play grab-ass on his own time, but instead found Dallas looking for his fallen jaw. Dallas stared at Herb, incomprehension plain on his face. Turning back, Herb yelped when he realized the woman had moved to stand directly in front of him, looking up from beneath press-on lashes and blue eyeliner.

  “Hi. I’m Jenni. And I just love a guy who’s good with his balls.” Breasts suddenly pressed full against his chest, Jenni took a playful nip at his ear, whispered, “You really know how to roll. How about a little time in the gutter once you’re done?”

  Jenni. Jenni Colton. Memories started to click. Rumors had it she was a trophy hunter, dumping a guy the second she thought she could upgrade with the next one. Now, Herb wasn’t the brightest light above Roswell when it came to women, but having a girl pressed against you was a pretty clear signal, so it didn’t take long for the pieces to fit into place. Jenni was obviously on the prowl, and he was solidly in her cross-hairs. Him. Herbert Knudsen. Not some other guy with a bigger motorcycle or better paycheck, he realized. And not Dallas. Me!

  Tossing a cavalier wink to a shell-shocked Dallas, Herb wrapped an arm around Jenni and dipped her down and back until her hair almost swept the floor. The t-shirt that had been showing her to best advantage while standing up now found itself struggling mightily to contain her ample bosom as Herb kissed her long and hard.

  Smoothly pulling her back to her feet, he waited until her knees were working again, then walked to the return, picked up his ball and nonchalantly launched it toward the pins like the trapped soul of Hermes. Turning his back on the lane as the ball impacted the pins, he blew a kiss toward Jenni. The crowd’s sudden outburst confirmed what he already knew to be true. He’d rolled another strike, and the ball had gone a record 35 miles per hour.

  A cagey look crossed Dallas’s face and his eyes took on a dangerous glint. When it was his turn to roll, he pulled another strike. Herb’s turn came, a strike. Dallas was up. Strike. Herb. Strike. Dallas, another strike. Frame after frame, the two men sent the pins flying and their scores racing toward 300. Dallas matching Herb frame for frame was tilting the universe back toward its previous alignment. While people still cheered for Herb and Jenni looked like she was about to rip his clothes off, more and more cries of, “Atta boy, Big D!” and “Hell yeah, Dallas!” were coming from the crowd. He even had his own buxom cheerleader. Colette, another serial man-killer and frequent booty call of Dallas’s, pushed her way to the front. As the men bowled strike after strike, she started competing with Jenni to see who could bounce up and down more and show more cleavage. By the seventh frame, their antics had gone from PG-13 to a solid R, and were quickly heading for NC-17. The handful of kids in the crowd suddenly had their parents’ hands across their eyes and were shuttled away from the lane.

  At this point, Stu, Wyatt and Dozer were irrelevant. Even with Stanley as a built-in handicap, they had no chance of winning. But despite being on the losing end of the match, they were just as excited about the unfolding Clash of the Bowling Titans. Eighth frame. Strike, strike. Ninth. Strikes again. Tenth frame.

  The final frame of the final game of the championship tournament. Climbers reaching Everest’s peak might have understood in some small way the elation Herb felt at that moment. He rolled. Strike. Two balls left. Strike. One more roll. Herb picked up his ball, turned to the crowd and gave a deep bow. He glided toward the lane, and at the last possible second sent the ball between his legs. The ball hooked just a smidge, catching the pins at the perfect angle, pulling them all down into the pit. Another perfect 300.

  Dallas looked up from where he sat, Colette massaging his neck and mouthing some threatening profanities at Jenni. He stood, rolling his broad shoulders as the crowd bounced and cheered. He approached the ball return, held his hand out over the stream of cool air from the vent. After a moment, he picked up his ball and stood looking at the lane. Three long, steady strides, arm arcing back and forward, releasing the ball as his toe stopped millimeters from the foul line. Freezing in a forward lunge, arm outstretched, palm tilted slightly upward as if in supplication, Dallas watched his final ball roll down the lane, hook slightly, and clear all ten pins.

  The crowd erupted as Dallas slapped his hands together and let out a, “Hell yeah!” Herb watched with Jenni molded to his side as Dallas rooster-strutted back to the score desk. Lifting his chin in unspoken challenge, Dallas grabbed Colette and planted one on her lips while goosing her denim-clad behind. Colette leaned into the kiss, throwing a leg up around Dallas’s hip. Finally breaking the kiss, Dallas gave a nod to the laughing, cheering crowd. The pins had reset and stood waiting for their next punishment. Dallas held the ball in front of his chest, took a deep breath and released it through pursed lips. Three strides, lunge, release and the ball glided down the lane. A few infinitely long seconds later, all ten pins fell a-clatter into the pit. Colette tackled him, both legs wrapping around his midsection, and kissed him hard. Pulling back like a cowboy on a mechanical bull, she whooped, “Take that, you scrawny scamp-tramp! I got me the real man here. You got nothing!” Dallas was turning a slow circle with Colette attached to the top of his belt buckle when Jenni grabbed her by the collar and wrenched her backward. The t-shirt tore, Dallas stumbled forward and Colette collapsed in a heap.

  “Bitch! I swear to god I’m gonna kick your little hussy ass,” she screamed, coming to her feet.

  “That’s right, little ass. That you wish you had, you budonk-adonk skeeze!”

  Jenni and Colette attacked one another with total gusto and no regard for the gathered spectators. Herb and Dallas and the final moments of their epic battle were momentarily forgotten. As the already large crowd swelled even further, money started to change hands. The betting was happening fast, but Herb thought odds were long on Colette. However, despite wicked-long fake nails and feral snarls, neither girl had suffered more than some pulled hair and a few scratches. Their respective wardrobes, however, were being torn to shreds, and the betting had shifted from which girl would win to which girl’s bra would fail. Dozer and Wyatt finally intervened, each taking a girl over the shoulder, carrying them through the whistling and clapping crowd and depositing them outside the alley’s front doors.

  Intermission over, the crowd returned all of its attention to the bowlers. Dallas had one ball left to roll. Herb knew they had already won. Hell, the game had basically been over two or three frames back. Still, everything hung on this moment. Herb watched Dallas turn his head to look back over his shoulder at his friends. Stanley was about to burst, but Herb kept his face stoic and still. Despite having just rolled three back to back perfect games, this was the moment that truly mattered. Suddenly all he wanted in the world was to beat Dallas. Not tie, but win. Definitively. Decisively. No room for excuses or fluke explanations. Just this once, Herb wanted to be undeniably, absolutely, 100-percent the best. Sitting there, everything started to fall away. The crowd, the lights, the smells, even Stanley’s erratic gulping and excited hiccups withdrew. All that was left was Herb and Dallas, holding each other’s stare. Dallas gave a self-satisfied huff, Herb raised an eyebrow in his best Cool Hand Luke and the moment collapsed, letting the rest of the world back in. Dallas turne
d back toward the lane, self-assurance incarnate. One, two, three strides, lunge, arc and release, watch the ball head toward the pins. Collide, spin, crash, twirl and roll. The game was over.

  Dallas stood rigid at the foul line, fists clenched, shoulders tight, spine ramrod straight, staring at the eight-pin extending from the alley, a bone-white middle finger wearing a blood-red ring. The only sounds were the whirring of the central air, the muted chords of Jasper’s karaoke machine as he sound-checked the system, and, finally, the collective sigh from the onlookers. The game was over. Herb rolled a 300. Dallas, a 299.

  Dallas turned, his body coiling. Herb stepped forward, extending a hand. Dallas matched his step while swinging a fist. The choreography of the moment would live forever in Herb’s mind. Like dancers in a twisted ballet, he continued his advance, wanting to congratulate his friend and accept congratulations in return on a game well played. Seeing Dallas’s fist part the air and arc toward his face, the new, deadly part of Herb’s brain clicked off facts. He could easily avoid the punch, or catch the fist and crush Dallas’s fingers, do any number of things in the split second it would take the fist to complete its journey toward his jaw. But the other part of Herb’s brain, the part that was still deeply rooted in his fading humanity, was stunned to the core. His friend, his best and oldest friend, was about to punch him in the face.

  Fist met jaw with a wet smacking sound, followed immediately by Herb’s grunt and Dallas’s yelp as both men reacted to the mutual pain of the experience. Herb had instantly covered his mouth with his hand, hiding a split lip and the sudden fangs from Dallas and the others. Fortunately, the split healed almost instantly, but retracting the fangs took an extra moment or two. So Herb simply stood there, mouth covered, staring with wide, uncomprehending eyes at what was had once been his friend. Dallas managed to look Herb in the eye for a moment, shaking his hand to take the sting out of bruised knuckles. Herb saw anger give way to guilt a split second before Dallas turned, grabbed his ball and boots and strode from the lane. Stopping just long enough to yank off his bowling shoes and shove his feet into his boots, he continued toward the exit and out into the night.

  Stunned, Herb watched Dallas stalk off while Stanley rushed up to his side.

  “Don’t you s-sweat it Herby. He’s j-just-mad he lost. Even though we won. Hey! We won! We won!” Stanley realized, stutter disappearing in his astonishment. His proclamation broke the crowd from their stunned reverie and they all began to cheer. Dozer, Stu and Wyatt took turns clapping first Herb then Stanley on the shoulder, pumping their fists in meaty handshakes. Even Fancy Dan, Dylan and Bert, clad in a mostly dry shirt now that their games were over, had come over to offer their congratulations.

  “But where’s Big D?” Dan asked, craning his neck. “What good is winning if you ain’t gonna hang around to enjoy it?”

  “It ain’t any good, goddamit. No good at all!” Dallas’s voice boomed over the crowd.

  “Holy shit, Herb. I don’t think I’ve ever done something so rotten or stupid,” he said after pushing back through the crowd to face Herb. “Well, there was that girl I picked up outside the free clinic in Milwaukee...” Dallas’s old grin returned, lopsided and devil-may-care as always. “But shit,” he continued, the grin replaced by a rare look of consternation, “I had no business cold-cocking you like that. Never mind that you’re my friend, or even that we’re on the same team for chrissakes. But you rolled a helluva good game. Shit, all your games were good. Not good, great! No one outta take a swing at their buddy for rolling a damn fine game of bowling, especially when we won! I don’t know what the hell got into me. I’m sorry, Herb and the drinks are on me.”

  Herb just shook his head, smiled and punched Dallas lightly in the shoulder. “Lucky for both of us you hit like a little girl.” The look on Dallas’s face made the whole ordeal worthwhile. Herb threw one arm around Dallas’s neck and the other around Stanley’s, pulling them toward the bar. Tonight had been one hell of a night, and it was time to celebrate.

  Chapter 33

  Herb was trotting back from the restroom, having just refreshed what had been a bloody Mary and was now a bloody Mark. It was about time for Dallas to raise the traditional championship toast and Herb didn’t want to miss it. Dallas took his toastmaster responsibilities very seriously when he wasn’t the big winner. This year, with him, Herb and Stanley being the champions, Herb knew that if he missed the toast, Dallas would do a lot worse than just punch him. Herb walked back into the bar as Dallas made his way through the crowd and climbed up onto the bar itself. It took a few piercing whistles and a few more “Shut the hell up’s” before the volume in the room fell to a level low enough for his booming voice to carry.

  “Alright, you chuckleheads! Here we are again, and it’s time for the goddamn toast!”

  The bowlers and their respective entourages all started to clap and cheer, chanting toast, toast, toast! It was easy to see that Dallas was more excited about making the toast than ever before. But right as his mouth opened to make way for the first syllable in what was sure to be his best toast yet, another voice jostled its way forward, amplified by a set of speakers mounted on either side of a make-shift stage in the back of the bar.

  “Herb! Hey Herb! What’s this year’s toast going to be?”

  The sea of intoxicated smiles swiveled first toward the sound of Jenni’s voice carried from the karaoke mic through the speakers. As comprehension filtered through the booze, most of the heads swung back to face Herb. A few blurry stares stayed glued on Jenni, as her earlier tiff with Colette had left her shirt torn in some suggestive places, but suddenly Herb found himself the focus of most of the bar’s patrons. Dallas had literally stopped breathing, rictus grin stretched thin as his eyes moved from Jenni to Herb. A choked, “Urgh,” escaped his lips, causing the sea of confused faces to swivel toward him once again.

  Dallas quickly regained his aplomb, raising his mug along with his voice. “Lovely Jenni has the right of it! I’m sick of making toasts. This year, the real winner needs to lead the toast. Three perfect games? Are you kidding me? C’mon Herbert. Get your pasty ass up here and lead these fine folks in the victory toast!” Dallas extended his bear paw hand toward Herb. Suddenly self-conscious, ears burning red, Herb tried to wave him off, but the crowd wouldn’t have it. Chanting again, but this time Herb-ert! Herb-ert! Herb-ert!, he felt a myriad of hands pushing him toward the bar and then Dallas was pulling him up.

  Turning slowly, Herb surveyed the room full of familiar, drunken faces, people he’d known for years, decades even. Over all those years, these people had paid him no attention at all. Until now. Only now that he could bowl, now that he was the best bowler in Trappersville, was he finally worthy of their attention, their affection. His eyes settled on Jenni, all vixen curves, pouty lips and rip-my-clothes-off eyes, wobbling in broken heels on the karaoke stage. Yesterday, she didn’t know who he even was. Today, she was coming on like an X-rated freight train. That’s right. Look at me now, he thought as the words of a toast started to form in his mind. Just look at me now.

  “I’ll give you a toast.” Herb took in the room with eyes that gleamed like moonlight on fresh-spilled blood.

  “Here’s looking at you, though it’s a hell of a tough thing to do!”

  Laughter from the crowd followed, with a few, “Here, here’s!”

  “No seriously,” Herb continued, a mean glint in his eyes. “Here’s to good friends, and you guys too.”

  More laughter, but a few frowns appeared, too. Herb took a long pull from his drink. If they only knew what was in this cup, he thought, the metallic tang of blood swirling with the alcohol as it coursed along his tongue and down his throat.

  Throwing his arms wide, he offered another. “In fact, in honest-to-goodness truth, I’d rather be drinking with you all tonight than with the finest people in the world!”

  Grunts and confused scowls were starting to outpace the laughter and cheers. But every scowling face quickly averted their e
yes as Herb looked across the room. A pall was slowly creeping across the celebratory mood that had prevailed just moments before. Herb could feel the slow change and knew that he was the cause. Whispers in the cracks and corners started to slouch and crawl their inevitable way through him, scratching and skittering like leaves in the autumn wind preceding the gale, wheeling and swirling like a murder of crows in a darkening sky, their almost-comprehensible sounds drowning out the noise of the crowd. Herb’s pulse quickened, senses heightened. A wolf pacing the herd, he could smell the weakness, nostrils flaring as he identified his victims. He wanted nothing more than to race across the floor, ripping smiles and scowls alike from all the greasy, insincere faces. Fingers clawed, he’d sink his nails into their flesh and tear skin and muscle from bone. His fangs would rend their necks until the geysers of blood soaked the room from ceiling to floor and the walls dripped red. He could feel his fangs start to cut the inside of his lip as his breaths came faster and faster.

  A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Whipping around with every intent of literally biting off the fingers the audacious fool that dared to touch him, Herb locked eyes with Dallas.

  “Whoa, hey buddy! Play nice, huh? You got one more shot to give us a toast worth drinking to!”

  Herb looked at Dallas, smiling and laughing, oblivious to the fact that he and every other person in the room was a hair’s breadth from becoming a smorgasbord of gristle and blood. Dallas, his first and oldest friend. His friend.

  Like a kettle taken off the burner, Herb’s rage subsided. Whispers clawed their way back into the dark spaces of the room. Fangs receded down to normal incisors. Exhaling a shaky breath and nodding to Dallas, Herb turned a tired smile back to his almost-victims and new-found admirers.

  “Well ok then. Here’s a toast. May we all come to peaceful ends, and leave the bar tab with our friends.”