Toolies

It was 7:30 on Friday night. Fridays were his escape to Toolies, and his buddies' too, the ones he'd known since middle school. As her escape into art was a way apart from him, his trip to the titty bar was his break from her. He told her as much. On one of those Fridays, he'd come home and hit her on the chin with such force that it broke her jaw. That time, she had purchased a new vase and set it on the table with a frilly carnation.

"What is that ugly green thing?" he'd asked that night at dinner. He had waited at the table for her to join him.

"It's not just green, it's chartreuse." It took guts for her to add "And it's imported from West Germany. Mom gave it to me today. For my birthday."

He swept it across the table with a sudden violent swing of his arm. With a crash it shattered against the china cabinet, rattling the contents. "You know what? You make me sick." He stood too quickly, knocking his chair over, and stood there, towering over her, threatening. "Everything about you fuckin' stinks." Now he was bellowing. "You make the whole house stink like that fucking snot-green jar, and I gotta get out. God, I wish I could get your fucking smell outta my life." Another swing of his arm, and she was on the floor, holding her jaw and sobbing.

That Friday night, as every Friday, he left the house with a slam of the front door.

This Friday started the same as other Fridays too when he came in for dinner in a silent sulk. He didn't take notice of her except when he wanted something, so Sandy wasn't moved when he didn't recognize her altered mood or the strange look she gave him as she scooped the mashed potatoes on his plate. She'd prepared for him an extra juicy piece of meat; if he noticed, he said nothing. Perhaps as a 'thank you' he refrained from giving her lip when it was time for him to go out. He put on his bomber, took his keys off their hook, and slammed the door behind him.

After he'd left for Toolies always played the same for Sandy. The anxiety at the thoughts of his return offset her peace at being alone. Her wishing over and over that he'd run his pickup into a power pole, only to be disappointed. Sometimes he missed every power pole along the road home so that he could come in and run his fist into her. Other nights he wouldn't come home at all. As the grunt of his car faded off down the street, Sandy held the warm amulet that hung around her neck. It throbbed with anticipation. "Tonight, everyone will know how much I hate you."

#

The sleety rain and wind had stopped, and an eerie silence fell over the barely lit Toolies parking lot that was packed with big-wheeled boxes sitting over dirty snow and ice that refused to melt. On the rooftop, the neon outline of a topless babe flashed left to right to left, pivoting on bent knees, as if locked in an eternal spasm; calling out, a siren, to those types attracted to the idea of a woman trapped.

Sandy's breath steamed in the frosty night air. She wore only a thin pink night shift and should have been freezing, but the thing that hung about her neck warmed her body like a double brandy, neat. Barefoot, she walked over the wet asphalt with purpose around to the back entrance, where a young woman, likely a dancer, stood wrapped in an oversized coat. She was smoking a joint which she quickly hid behind her back when she recognised Sandy.

"Gosh, Mrs Glaikett, what are you doing here, dressed like that? I mean, the cold and--"

"That's not me anymore, it's Holecroft now, my mom's name." Sandy replied calmly, smiling, then stopped before the woman and opened her hand to show a small roll of bills. She peeled off a fifty and held it out. "I remember you from when you were in school. It's Iris, right?"

Iris nodded.

"I want you to do something for me."

"Ma'am, I'm not that kind of--"

"No, no. Nothing like that. I have fifty dollars for every woman working in there. All I need is for you to get every one of them out here, now."

Iris screwed her face up, confused.

"Trust me. It's very important. But, make it quiet like. I don't want any of the customers to know. Just you ladies. No men. Got it?"

Money talks. Iris took the bill. "Fifty for everyone?"

"Yes, and quickly, now. Please."

A few minutes later, Sandy walked through a small group of shivering servers and dancers. An older woman, the cook, glared at her but took the money. Sandy turned to address them. "Don't come back in until I leave. Got that? I'll only be a few minutes and, believe me, the sheriff will really want to talk to you if you follow me. Get my drift?"

From the back room, Sandy could hear a Johnny Cash song playing in the bar. The place was as dingy inside as it was outside. She walked past the office and into the dressing room, across the short hall. Beside the fry kitchen, a door to the stage let in the smell of cigarette smoke. The jukebox clacked and whirred, and on came "We've Got Tonight" by Kenny Rogers. Sandy loved that song.

She walked out onto the small stage, the front of which was rimmed with light bulbs. A full house. Neon below the bar's glass-shelf layers of bourbon, whiskey, and gin provided gaudy light, and the only sign that Christmas was approaching was a half-assed tinsel-draped tree that tilted against the cigarette machine. The bartender-owner rested his elbows on the cash register, watching (along with a line-up of regulars) a small TV mounted on the wall at the end of the bar, tuned to Friday night football. To the left of the jukebox, a few men were throwing darts. Others gathered around two large pool tables, bright green felt garish under overhead lights featuring shabby colored plastic meant to look like stained glass.

Then she saw him: the man of her dreams turned into nightmares. He was leaning forward on a high table, chatting enthusiastically over a beer to a peroxide blonde. She wore a tight top with busting buttons and a short denim skirt. Her legs were crossed, and one booted foot bounced as she sat on the stool, sipping her Bloody Mary, with a cigarette between her index and middle fingers.

Sandy walked up to the edge of the stage and in one fluid motion dropped the straps of the nightie off her shoulders. The sheer garment floated to the stage floor. The lights over her bare skin played across the topography of her body like Caravaggio's chiaroscuro. Like a high priestess, she raised her arms and, just like that, she held the place.

"Fuck off, hairy bitch." A big, bear-like man at a pool table called out over the music. His words with a scattering of laughter from around the room. His nearby buddies smacked him on the back, nodding and clinking their beer bottles.

Sandy didn't care. The look on her husband's face as he recognized her was worth all the misogynistic jibes in the Universe.

She knew the words as if they had been with her from birth. A whisper and the amulet glowed. At the bar, there was a mad scramble for handfuls of peanuts. Anyone in the place with food dug in as if they hadn't eaten for a week. Those without food sought the plates of others, who were unwilling to share.

"Hey, hands off fella, that's mine."

"Why you sumbitch, I oughta..."

Lifelong friendships devolved to savory preservation versus lust for rings of deep-fried onion. For those with food, it was as if possession attracted the same premium as if they'd worked the whole season to bring those greasy biteletts to the plate, then were faced with the savage abandon of raiders come to steal their food and rape their children: those goddamned greedy motherfuckers. For those without food, their stomachs knotted with hunger and nausea, the hoarders with plenty to share, but who simply chose not to, signed their death warrants because they were goddamned selfish motherfuckers. The marauders and hoarders joined in battle.

From the jukebox, Sheena Easton joined the duet. Her singing provided the perfect accompaniment to the undulating waves of Sandy's alien chant as men cut men with broken glass and belt knives, as women patrons tore men with their fingernails, spilling warm life juice that, in the absence of food, could satisfy hunger. The taste of rage was top of the menu.

The bear brute stuck a fella with his pool cue, withdrew it, and licked the blood-slick stick like a giant cola pop. The source of the blood stream warbled as the big man lifted him to suck and drink from the wound.

Darts became eye-piercing dirks.

A truant, on-duty deputy fired his gun, but only had ten bullets.

Teeth found stringy neck meat and ripped enemies open like rabid beasts. To feed on the flesh of one's worst enemy, they discovered, was the most joyous, most righteous thing ever.

The screams, cries, bellows, and grunts soon stopped, replaced by the satisfied sounds of alpha males feeding. But their bliss did not last. One survivor realized that food would eventually run out and they had to stockpile. It was he, Sandy's husband, who first understood this truth, raising his slick face from the ruined chest of the false blonde. He picked up a stool and smashed it over the back of another feeding patron. Another, protecting their house from violation, joined with a violence unknown to any man or woman before; they launched at him and tore and bit and spat in a rage until he was dead and his intestines had become a seemingly infinite string of the tastiest sausage.

Toolies had become thick with the smell of iron and shit.

Sandy panted heavily and was salivating, as if the actions of the now dead or dying had been feeding her too—feeding her pleasure. She had become slick with sweat, with one hand clutching the amulet and the other groping at her glistening body, helping her to feel. The end came with a Gaian climax from within that shook the ages.

With chest heaving, Sandy stood looking out over the edge of the stage as the music from the jukebox faded out. The only sound besides her breathing were cheers from the television for a brawl at the 30-yard line. Sandy beheld her work laid out before the stage with quiet contentment, promising herself that, next time, she would bring her camera.

A gust of cold air rushed from an open door. A man, middle-aged with a scruffy hunting jacket, had stepped into the establishment. The door closed behind him with a soft "thunk." Sandy watched the blood drain from his face as he took in the surroundings. She watched also as he backed out without a sound. Cold struck her again as the door opened and closed. She felt the amulet; it had cooled. It was time to go.

Exiting the stage, she tripped over a body—it was Iris. There were more bodies too, of the women she had tried to save. They had not been able to stay away,, judging by the shambles of food and kitchen weapons lying about; they must have been listening from the pass-through window. In the kitchen, a fifty dollar bill lay in a pool of cooking oil that steamed on the floor as it mixed with a stream of blood.

Sandy made her way to the rear exit, feet sliding across the slippery floor. As she reached for the back door's handle, the door exploded inward. A figure moved in, a hobo, red on account of the bloody wounds over his arms and face and stained clothing. A dark socket was missing its eye; his good right eye stood out wide. Bloody snot hung from a partial nose, and something had cleanly removed the flesh from over his cheekbone and sections of his jaw. Ed's voice was ragged, his words rough.

"I don't blame you fer what you've done, but I need the gold back, lady."

For the first time that night, the ambient cold affected her and Sandy shivered. Had she underestimated the amulet's pull? The alien thing around her neck responded with a flash of warmth. "Okay. Here." Sandy slowly pulled the cord over her head and reached out. The glowing amulet hung from her fist, winding and unwinding with a hypnotizing spin.

"Just like that?"

"Yes. Take it. It's yours." Her words, calm, omniscient.

Ed hunched down until his good eye was level with the gold. His right hand, its flesh stripped by the attack of the hens, hovered an inch away. He snatched the sacred item.

Ed Nevile screamed as the gold hissed and spat in his hand like cesium dropped into cold water. He released the amulet and charged at Sandy. But she was ready, holding forth a cook's knife retrieved from a nearby body. The blade slid effortlessly into the crazed man's throat, severing pipes that gushed. He fell to his knees and sat still under her watchful eye.

Moved by the whine of a distant siren calling out from the chords of crying gulls, Sandy Holecroft retrieved the treasure and floated into the dark and to her car. Inside, with fingers gripping the wheel, and bare toes holding the tops of ribbed-steel clutch and accelerator, she breathed deep and closed her eyes. Teacher, historian, photographer, daughter, widow, keeper of the Amulet of Hunger and Hate. Powerful though those names were, even combined they meant less to her than the one she now claimed: the holder of no secrets.


fin.

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