Living Dead at Zigfreidt & Roy

Living Dead at
Zigfreidt & Roy

(Plus 4)

By Axel
Howerton

An Iniquitous
Tomes Book

Copyright ©
2012 Axel Howerton

Visit the
author on the web at
www.axelhowerton.com

CONTENTS

LIVING DEAD
AT ZIGFREIDT & ROY

HIS DARK
FLAG

HENRY ROLLINS AND THE BETTER BUTTER BACON
BU
RGER

ROSIE'S
CHICKEN & BISCUITS

DARK
FLUSH OF THE SITH

ABOUT THE
AUTHOR

COMING
SOON

PUBLISHING INFORMATION

HOME

The old cowboy
tumbled through the front door with a crash and the tinkling of the
overhead bell. He slammed his back to the door as his eyes darted
across the expanse of the diner. Struggling to catch his breath, he
jerked around to look back past the café curtains and through the
big glass windows that made up the front wall. The place was dead
silent, except for the low caterwaul of George Jones coming from
the tinny speakers in the ceiling.

The old man
pulled himself up to his full standing six-and-a-half feet. He was
lean and taut with ropey muscle, but his face wore every one of his
seventy-plus years. He smoothed the downslopes of his oversized
moustache, straightened the white-straw cowboy hat on his head and
wiped his bloody hands on the front of his stained white shirt. He
cast a single cautious glance back toward the door before striding
to the lunch counter, seemingly oblivious to the stares and
whispers around him. He parked himself on a well-used stool, one
foot planted on the floor as he hooked the worn heel of the other
boot in the footrest. The old man shifted his weight as he reached
behind him and pulled a gleaming revolver from the back of his
jeans. He placed it on the counter, resting his hand over the
polished wood handle. Two older women in a booth shared frantic
whispers back and forth, then pried themselves from their seats,
fumbling with their handbags as they rushed out the door with the
overhead bell ushering them on their way.

The cook
loomed behind the counter, all thick arms and thick neck. He was
bottom-heavy and short-legged, a Grizzly in an apron. He stared
down at the old man from blunt eyes canopied by dark and heavy
brows.

“I don’t need
any trouble in here, pal. I can call and have the cops here
in–”“Can I get some damn coffee?” the cowboy interrupted. His thick
West-Texas twang betrayed a slight tremble.

The cook stood
stiff, one hand hidden beneath the counter. “This ain’t the kind of
place you wanna try anything funny, old man. You come in here like
the fucking Alamo and ask for coffee? Pass that pistol over and
I'll think about it.”

“I ain’t
startin’ no trouble. I just want some goddamn coffee. .” The cowboy
glared from under the brim of his hat. “I’m from Texas, son. I
ain’t givin' my gun to no man. I just don’t want to be settin’ on
the goddamned thing all night.”

“And whose
blood are you wearing all over your shirt?”

“Well it ain't
nothin' nefarious on my part, but that’s a story you’re gonna wanna
hear. Pour me a goddamn cup of coffee and I’ll tell it,” the old
man grumbled, taking off his hat and gently setting it down to
cover the pistol.

The cook
stared long and hard at the old man before relaxing his meaty
shoulders. He muttered under his breath as his hand came up from
beneath the counter, holding a yellowish coffee cup. He filled it
from a stained coffee pot that looked a decade or two past its
prime, and slammed the mug down on the scarred counter, leaving a
third of the brown liquid in a pool around the cup. The old cowboy
nodded his thanks as the bell on the door sounded again and another
random soul disappeared into the Las Vegas night. The old man
seemed to cringe at the sound of it and, after a cursive glance
over his shoulder, he spun around on his stool to take measure of
the place. It was the same as every other greasy spoon he’d seen
over the years - peeling wallpaper, Formica tables with
vinyl-padded aluminum chairs, and ratty booths with shaky lights
swinging above them. Most of the customers had left in a hurry when
he shambled into the place, and now there were only two tables left
occupied. A balding fat man sat in a booth, poking away on the tiny
keyboard of his cellular phone with meaty, sausage fingers adorned
with gaudy rings. He wore a shiny purple shirt, tight silk barely
containing his bulbous gut. Three empty beer bottles , a shambling
pile of race sheets and a half-eaten club sandwich littered his
table. The other occupied table, at the front of the diner, held a
young couple arguing in harsh whispers and oblivious to the rest of
the world.

The cowboy
jumped as a sudden blur of lights and wailing alarms flew past the
street-side windows. Every face in the room turned, as if by mutual
instinct. The old man watched with visible discomfort as the parade
of sirens sped by, before returning to his coffee.

The cook let
his gaze turn to the cowboy, and he spoke in a low growl

“Guess if the
cops were chasing you, you wouldn’t stop in here, now would ya?” He
continued to eye the old man with a suspicious glare. “You got any
idea what’s goin’ on out there? That’s the third set of cops and
ambulances we’ve seen in ten minutes.”

The old man
turned slowly on the stool, his rheumy eyes hardening to a concrete
stare as he leaned forward. “I told you I’d tell you the story. But
you ain’t gonna believe me. Not by a long shot.”

The cook
crossed his arms and redoubled his stare. “Spill it, old
timer.”

The cowboy
took another sip of his coffee and set his eyes on the dark
reflection in the bottom of the cup.

“Was over to
the casino to see that show with all the animals and them two
fellas, the magicians. You know? The ones wear them white jumpsuits
full of shiny bullshit. Got a couple of white tigers to match?”

The old man
paused, staring into the oily black dregs in his cup, as another
raucous choir of sirens charged past the diner. When quiet had
fallen back over the room, the cook cleared his throat in hopes of
urging the cowboy to get on with the story.“Yep. That's a damn fine
cup of coffee, boy. Y'know, over at the hotels, they only got them
places with all the ven-see latt-tays and mocha-fritos, or whatever
the hell they call em'-”

The cook stood
solid, glaring down with the face of an old bulldog waiting for his
can of meat.

The cowboy
coughed, “Yep. They give out free tickets to keep ya comin’ back to
the casino for more. I’ll tell ya, it was the wrong goddamn show to
see tonight. Never seen any crazier shit in all my days.”

“Yeah, it’s a
crazy fucking magic show all right,” the cook replied, rolling his
eyes. “You’re in Vegas, Pops. Were you looking for card tricks and
top hats? Let's hear about the blood and the ambulances.”The old
man sneered. “I'm gettin' there, you asshole. There was this spooky
lookin’ Indian fella settin’ in the back of the theatre when I got
there. Not American Indian, y’understand. ... East Indian, or maybe
he was one of them Packeeestanis. He was wearing one of them white
suits with no collar, like James Coburn in them spy pictures.”

“Nero,”said
the busboy, hustling back with a tray full of greasy dishes and
bottles full of cigarette butts.

“Who in the
hell was talking to you, Tommy?” growled the cook.

Tommy cowered
behind the pile of dirty plates and cups. He spoke in a soft,
trembling voice. “I was just saying, they call it a Nero suit.”

“It’s called a
Nehru suit, you retard,” the cook barked, waving the busboy away,
“go wash some fucking dishes!”Tommy carried his load behind the
counter and back into the kitchen. There was a clattering sound as
the dishes tumbled into the stainless steel sink. Tommy scuttled
back to the counter. He was small and slight with a hunched posture
and a mouse-like twitchiness. Tommy grabbed the coffeepot and
brought it around to refill the stranger’s cup. He hesitated as he
caught a glimpse of the barrel of the pistol, poking out from
beneath the old man’s hat.

“Obliged,” the
cowboy muttered with a nod and a slight rise atthe corners of his
mouth. “Have a seat, son.”

“So what, old
man? So there was some Indian guy wearing a white suit? Everybody
wears white in those Vegas shows.” The cook prodded.

“The Indian
fella weren’t with the show. He was just standin’ in the back,
watchin’. He was big for an Indian, too. Big barrel chest and jet
black hair done up all slick-like , wasn’t wearin’ one a them
turban hats like some of em' do. He looked real mean and sorta
angry. I got up to use the can and there he was, just standin’ in
front of the exit. He didn’t do nothin’ at first. Just stood there
staring at the fellas in their shiny suits.”

The cowboy
paused, closing his eyes as he was caught by a hacking cough and
struggled to catch his breath. He shuddered and wavered on his
stool. The cook’s eyes shot to the gun, even as Tommy reached out
to steady the old man.

The cowboy
slapped Tommy’s hand away and began to cough again. “I’m all right
damn it! I don’t need no goddamn help!” His cough was wet and
croupy and it took a full minute for the old cowboy to recover and
set his legs stable beneath him. The cook kept his eyes on the
pistol.

Ruddy color
flushed in the old man’s cheeks as he righted himself on the stool.
His eyes moved to Tommy, who was leaning as far away from the
cowboy as he could without falling on his ass. The old man
scratched at the sparse white threads on top of his head and gave
Tommy a conspiratorial wink

“I’m alright,
son. I just got a lot more days behind me than in front of me. Got
me a bad ticker,” he said, tapping his chest with two fingers.

Tommy smiled
and drew a harsh glare from the cook, who threw his head back
toward the kitchen, the signal for Tommy to return to work. Tommy
ignored the gesture as another round of sirens sounded in the
street. The cook lifted his eyes to the windows, a dim look of
concern slowly working its way through the dull landscape of his
face.

“Must have
been some serious shit,” the cook declared. “Where’d you say this
magic show was?”

“At that big
hotel on the strip. The one with all the palm trees and silvery
shit everywhere,” replied the old man.

The cook
snickered, “Vegas, old man. Every place in town is silvery with
fuckin’ palm trees.” He shook his head and took a filthy rag from
his back pocket, wiping the counter as his eyes stayed set on the
street outside.

“So what
happened next?” Tommy whispered, inching forward on his stool.

The cowboy
turned and squinted at the question, eyes full of water. “You ever
seen somebody get killed, son? Bad, I mean? Up close? Not on TV or
in the movies.”

The boy shook
his head, open-mouthed.“Nothin’ much more happened until them white
tigers come out. Then that Indian fella stormed up toward the
stage, hollerin’ to wake the dead. Two security guards tried to
grab him and... I ain't never seen nothin’ like it,” The cowboy
waved his hands in front of him like a third-base coach calling off
the steal. “That big Indian just waved his hands and the security
guards--big fellas, mind--they went flying back as if they was
kicked by a horse that knows its about to get gelded. He never
touched em. Just waved his goddamn hands in the air!”

The fat man in
the purple shirt had been listening, and had inched closer and
closer until he found himself easing into a seat at the counter.
“Then what happened” the fat man asked.

The cowboy
leaned back to look at the source of the new voice and nodded as if
accepting him into his circle. “Well, like I said, he tossed them
security boys off to the side. And then, no word of a lie, that big
ol' Indian bastard put his arms out like Jesus on the cross. He
just threw his arms out and kinda lifted up there onto the stage
like a goddamn Genie or somethin’!”

“You mean he
levitated?” asked the fat man.

“That’s the
word. That is the word, fella. Levitated. Like he just got lifted
straight up off the ground and set down there in front of the
magicians. He started yellin’ something ‘bout desecratin’ sacred
tigers. Then he held his hands out and I’ll be goddamn if those
white tigers didn’t step up to him, nice and pretty, like a couple
of housecats lookin’ to get their bellies scritched.”