Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller (25 page)

I nod absently again.

“Seriously, man, let’s says my theory is way off. You lied about the money—fine, you’re a bad boy. Think about what you gave her. In simplest terms, you saved her life. I think a lie about money—and it wasn’t a lie rooted in greed, but in a bid for loyalty—can be forgiven for something as valuable as her life, don’t you?”

“Yeah…”

“And you said your friend is going to be okay?”

“Yeah.”

He splays his hands. “You took a swan dive into a pool of shit, and while you didn’t necessarily come up a rose, at least you came up.” He points to my missing ear. “Just missing a few pieces is all.”

I laugh and start to wonder if he’s a shrink moonlighting as a bartender. He’d certainly have an eclectic pick of subjects to dissect in such a place. Yours truly included.

“Can I call you a cab, man?”

“Sell me a bottle to go first. I don’t care what.”

“Uh…kind of illegal, bud.”

I roll my eyes, thumb ten bills, and then slap them on the bar. A thousand dollars cash. “Still feel law-abiding?”

I’m handed a fresh bottle of Beam.

“Cheers,” I say. “Call me that cab.”

Hangover.

I open my eyes and the sunlight from my window is like a laser drilling into my brain.

I just wanna sleep.

But it’s the kind of hangover that won’t let you sleep. The kind that’s like a little kid; once it knows you’re awake, it’s going to make your life hell until you get out of bed and do something about it.

Hair of the dog.

I roll out of bed.

Hair of the dog.

I stumble out of my room.

Hair of the dog.

Why not? Why the fuck not? I’m living in the moment, right?

I stumble towards my kitchen. I’m still buzzed from last night, probably still drunk. That’s good; will make my new drunk easier. I’m not sure if I have anything to drink, but I spot a full bottle of Jim Beam sitting on my counter. And then I remember the bar. More importantly, the bar-
tender
. What that guy must think. Well fuck him—living in the moment, me.

I find a glass and fill it with Beam, no ice. The first swig is rough; my stomach hitches. But then the burning, warming sensation follows and it’s better. I immediately take another swig. Better than the last—warmer too. I drain the glass and it feels right. A few minutes later, I’m drunk again, and that
definitely
feels right.

I fill the glass halfway again and head over to the sofa. “Living in the moment,” I say to no one. I grab the remote. “Not numb anymore. Not watching the movie of myself. Not—”

I stop.

Not watching the movie of myself.

The movie of myself.

It’s still there. On my TV. The movie of myself.

Angela’s words come back to me like whispers:

“
Wanna watch it again? Aren’t you just a tiny bit curious? I mean now that it’s all over?”

“No.” I set my drink down, stand, snatch the DVD case from my TV, open it, pop out the disc, go to snap the bastard in half—and stop.

“Aren’t you just a tiny bit curious? I mean now that it’s all over?”

“No. I want to watch
Chainsaw
and get drunk.”

And yet I put the disc in my DVD player. Hit play and take a seat.

Black screen and then:

An empty room. A solitary chair facing the camera. Angela enters and takes a seat in the chair. She smiles and flicks her fake teeth with her tongue. It’s recent.

“Hey, you,” she says. “I knew you’d eventually watch it. Do I know my man or what?”

For some reason, I look over my shoulder. The DVD continues.

“I need to show you something, baby,” she says. “Please watch carefully.”

The scene changes. It is an overhead view from a security camera of what I did to Mr. John at the club. It shows me cutting off his balls. It shows me cutting his throat after. And goddamnit if it doesn’t show me smiling as I’m doing it all.

A quick cut and we’re back to Angela now. “Questions, yes? Many questions. Let’s see, where to begin…well, first off, as you well know, there’s no need to edit this gem; you’re a cold-blooded killer and I love you for it.” She grins. “Oh and I’ve got plenty of copies if you’d like some. Great as stocking stuffers.” She smiles and flicks her fake teeth again. “Okay, you ready for the major newsflash? The men you killed were not Mr. John and his goons. In fact, there never
was
a Mr. John.” She leans in close to the camera. “Remember when I told you I had only one major competitor in the industry?” She leans back and splays her arms with a triumphant grin. “Guess who’s number one now?”

I can only blink a response.

“Unfortunately, the old saying is true,” she says. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.” She removes her teeth and flashes the gap with a big grin. “Removing my own teeth was
not
pleasant, but it was pretty fucking dramatic, wouldn’t you say?”

I nod at the TV.

She puts her teeth back in. “I had a busy night after you left the club, Calvin. It took me and my employees
forever
to clean up the mess you left. Did a number on them, didn’t you? You
and
your savior friend. Don’t worry, I’ve got no reason to call on him; I imagine he’s fairly clueless to the whole operation, yes? Yeah, I think so. Your moral compass is a curious thing. What to spare and what to take? Fortunately, all I really needed to take was the video footage from the bathrooms. Left my team to take care of the rest; made sure I was able to meet you back at the hotel in time.”

“That’s why I never saw anything about it on TV,” I say.

“That’s why you never saw anything about it on TV,” she says. “All three of those men might as well have just—” She makes a
poof!
sound “—up and vanished.”

I reach for my drink and knock it over. I don’t care.

“So in conclusion, my dear Calvin, there never
was
a Mr. John. I’m a very successful, very self-made woman. And you—you wonderful, wonderful man—took care of my only major competition. The future is so very bright, baby. So very bright and so very busy. I’ll be in touch soon.” She blows me a kiss, grins, and the screen goes black.

I stare silent for a while. Am I numb again? Maybe. It doesn’t matter. I get up and walk to my bedroom and grab the bottle of oxys. I head to the kitchen and grab the bottle of Beam. I head back to the den, take out her DVD, toss it across the room, and put in
Chainsaw
. I sit on the sofa, bottle of oxys in one hand, bottle of Beam in the other.

(
If you die, she won’t care.
)

She can’t win.

(
Think of Paul.
)

This bullshit almost got him killed.

(
Think of Pele.
)

Better he be at my mom’s, safe and warm and fed. What kind of security could I hope to offer him?

(
She won’t care. You’re a number to her; that’s all.
)

I can’t let her win.

I swallow a mouthful of oxys and chase it with a deep swig from the bottle of Beam.

The opening monologue by a young John Larroquette is finished. Now flash photos of the corpse The Hitchhiker dug up. I smile. God, I love this film.

I take another handful of pills and chase it with more Beam.

Franklin complaining it’s too hot in the van. Marilyn Burns is ridiculously sexy. Blows away any scream queen working today.

I take more pills, more Beam. Things are getting fuzzy. I want to see Leatherface. I want to see what I think is the best scene in cinematic history. I want to see when Leatherface hits Kirk with the sledge, drags him inside, and then slams the steel door shut with the boom to end all booms.

I want…

…

…

Copyright © 2014 by Jeff Menapace

Published by Mind Mess Press

All Rights Reserved