Scenes from the Carnival Lounge, A Collection of Odd Tales

By Michael Picco

What scares you?

Let’s consider fear for a moment...
Fear strikes in many ways. It titillates and terrifies. It can be prosaic or sublime. It’s grim, gritty, seedy, and dark. Fear can be subtle — something that bubbles just under the surface of our perception. It can linger for years, or effervesce before the page is turned. Fear transforms, mutates and evolves. It can be silent and gentle
or thundering and vicious. And, in large enough doses, fear can kill. But, there are fates worse than death.
Far, far worse fates, indeed...
Scenes From The Carnival Lounge is a collection of tales that explore the many facets of fear. Here, you’ll travel that strange shadow world between waking and sleep; where angels whisper to their acolytes; where monsters don the skins of their victims; where love and betrayal cross paths with deadly consequences; where things long-buried come lurching and hungry back to life.
Dare to enter The Carnival Lounge and remember: that which does not kill you, will probably try again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Picco
• Release date: Jul 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781548072902

Michael Picco

Michael Picco is not a monster despite what THEY say. Think of him, instead as a host of sorts. Yes: A human monster hostel (as opposed to a hostile monster). The monsters that dwell in his mind don’t linger long. They come, share their stories, and like all monsters, they slither or slouch their way back into the worlds whence they came...their appetites whetted and their consciences "confession clean". Michael has given voice and form to the things that clamor through his skull for the better part of 25 years through short stories, novels, and playwriting. His first novel, written with co-author Mark Clodi, is titled; Fraser: The Disappearance of Michael Pitts. James Rover Novel Vol. 1. He is currently working on a collection of short stories titled: Scenes From The Carnival Lounge, A Collection Of Weird Tales (slated for completion in 2017). Michael is a published short-story writer, novelist, columnist, poet and an award-winning essayist living in the Colorado High Country. He has published work in a variety of media, including: newspapers, theater, blogs, and literary journals. Chuck Palahniuk, Stephen King, Jonathan Carroll and Anne Rice were early and enduring influences on his writing and prompted him to study English as undergraduate. Michael received his B.A. in English from Western State University in Colorado.

Book preview

Scenes from the Carnival Lounge

A Collection of Odd Tales

Copyright 2014 Michael J. Picco. All rights reserved, except as noted.

Published by Michael J. Picco at Smashwords

First Edition: 2018

Frontispiece: Jessie by Ros Morales

Web: http://roskovacs.carbonmade.com

E-mail: [e-mail]

ISBN-13: 978-1548072902

ISBN-10: 1548072907

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The stories in Scenes from the Carnival Lounge are fictional. Any similarity to real events is coincidental. Names, characters, places, companies or public entities, commodities (and respective usage and functionality) and/or incidents are products of the author’s fevered imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons (living, dead or otherwise transformed) is coincidental.

Excerpts, allusions and quotes from specific works contained in Scenes from the Carnival Lounge are reproduced for the purposes of reference and commentary (and in some cases, serve as the inspiration of a particular piece). They are not intended in any way as a challenge to the ownership of relevant trademarks, intellectual property or to copyrights. The author encourages readers to enjoy the works referenced in hopes that it will bring a deeper appreciation of the pieces written herein.

Scenes from the Carnival Lounge contains links to other websites which have been compiled from internal and external sources. Although the websites have been reviewed prior to creating the link, the author or Smashwords are not responsible for the content of these sites. Information on linked website pages may become dated or change without notice or may contain spurious or technically harmful scripting. These links are being provided as a convenience and for informational purposes only; they do not constitute an endorsement or an approval by the author or Smashwords of any of the products, services or opinions of the corporation, organization or individual. The author bears no responsibility for the accuracy, legality or content of the external site or for that of subsequent links. The author does not represent or warrant that information contained on these linked pages is complete or accurate and encourages readers to verify information obtained from linked websites before acting on such information.

Scenes from the Carnival Lounge contains scenes, situations and themes which some readers may find disturbing, including: graphic violence, strong/adult language, sexually-explicit content and imagery not suitable for audiences under 18. Reader discretion is advised.

Table of Contents

Introduction and Author’s Notes

Acknowledgements

All of Yesterday’s Yesterdays

After Cirelo

All Good Dogs…

Agents of the Seraphim

The Esurient Hyrst

Rapture in Reverse

Exchanges

Vanilla

Chains of Darkness

The Lost Tribe

Valley of the Flies

The Pass

The Sceadu

The Baelaehagra of Llangennith Downes

The Vampyre’s Last Dawn (poem)

D’Sai (An Excerpt from Chapter 1)

The Horror Writer and the Ten Grisly Bears (essay)

Endnotes

About the Author

Introduction and Author’s Notes

Meraki (verb): to do something with soul, creativity or love; when you leave a piece of yourself in your work.

You would think that I would’ve gotten this outta my system by now — this whole writing thing, I mean. You would think that the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune would have nipped it in the bud by now. You know… impaling or stoning my desire to spend hours in front of a computer instead of with family, friends and loved ones. You would think that years and years of work believing (and I mean really believing) that storytelling was a dying art form and the belief that nobody would ever actually read my work would deter me from writing. You would think that the return on investment would rouse me from my stupor and cause me to put away such foolish endeavors. You would think that years of sciatica and back pain would discourage me from sitting and writing altogether.

Or so you would think.

But as Lord Byron said, If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad. This sentiment has always resonated with me. I’ve often said that I write to quell the voices that scream and whisper in my thick, hard head. Not as eloquent as Byron, admittedly… but, the concept is the same.

You are holding in your hands one of my bucket list items. This collection of stories is long overdue. Living and loving has curtailed my creative output in recent years — and without regret (as Benjamin Franklin once said, Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing). Now nearing the half-century mark of my life, I feel that this is something that I can no longer put off — especially given my rate of production. I would hasten to add that this collection is no opus — not by any means! Some of these stories were conceived decades ago, and others much more recently. Some stories age like wine, and others, well… they turn to vinegar.

Besides, I would like to think that I have only begun to distill my creative juices.

Scenes from the Carnival Lounge derives its title from a collection of stories that I started following graduation from Western State College. The collection remained embryonic and largely neglected for many years thereafter. Other projects and priorities took precedence, and the notion of publishing a collection of short stories slipped from benign neglect further and further into dissolution. Most of the stories written back then have gone sour, but the nascent idea of various stories and the collection itself remained. In 2014, shortly following the release of Fraser — The Disappearance of Michael Pitts (my first novel, written with Mark Clodi), I finally had the discipline (not to mention the confidence… the chops, you might say) to finally give voice to these odd tales.

Given the titles, you would think that these tales are largely religious in nature — reflecting a strong faith in the Christian tradition. You would be wrong. I find that the Bible (and the equally odd tales therein) provides fertile ground for all sorts of tales — especially those with a weird or terrifying bent. It’s a rich source of literary inspiration and well-known themes, and I ply it as such (versus using it as an evangelical tool). For the most part, when referencing the Bible, I’ve used the Douay-Rheims Version, as I’ve always found it to be the most literate of the translations. In writing Scenes…, I’ve tried to curb my atheist tendencies, but occasionally this ideology rears its pointed head. Please keep your angry or righteous religious missives to yourself and pray for me instead (it will make you feel better and it won’t annoy me).

I use a lot of stream of consciousness narrative in Scenes…. If you are unfamiliar with this type of writing, I’d suggest that you do some exploration of the style before reading Scenes…. For the most part, character’s thoughts are going to be written in italics for emphasis or for setting them apart from the dialog (After Cirelo being the most notable exception). I employ a lot of em dashes — much to the dismay of my editor (s) — again, for emphasis. And for style. I tend to think in em dashes, and that translates to my writing. Oh, and I use ellipses too — lots and lots of ellipses which are included for similar reasons. As I get older, I often find my thoughts trailing off onto tangents (or to distraction) and this is reflected in my writing.

There are some stories that I felt needed a little background before starting. These come in the form of author’s notes at the beginning of a story or afterword at the end. I hope my more erudite of my readers will appreciate some of the admittedly obscure references in Scenes…, as I feel that the footnotes add depth and character to the tales. I’ve always considered footnotes to be like ‘Easter eggs’ on DVDs and have enjoyed them in books that I read. Like ‘em or not, they’re part of Scenes…. And while some may smack of the well, duh variety, please consider the inclusion of those footnotes simply for clarity. So, with that said, footnotes are used sparingly (there still aren’t enough in my opinion, as there are a lot of allusions to other works in Scenes…, but my editors and test readers were insistent). I’ve also included quotes from various authors and songwriters whom I admire which served to inspire a particular piece.

Language translations come courtesy of Google Translate. I do not claim to be fluent in Vietnamese, Greek, Jicarilla or any of the other foreign languages used herein. So, if you’re a language scholar, you can plead your case for the second revision of Scenes… if/when I get around to publishing it again.

It’s easy to read these stories and try to extrapolate the character or virtue of the writer. That is, it’s easy to paint the artist and his work with the same ideological brush. I maintain a love/hate relationship with a good number of my characters, but I try to remain true to all of them. As Truman Capote says, You can’t blame a writer for what the characters say and some of my characters are real bastards. I think we can all agree that monsters come in many shapes and forms — and the scariest ones are all too human.

And all too common, unfortunately.

Clive Barker says of the genre: Horror fiction has traditionally dealt in taboo. It speaks of death, madness and transgression of moral and physical boundaries. It raises the dead to life and slaughters infants in their cribs; it makes monsters of household pets and begs our affection for psychos. It shows us that the control we believe we have is purely illusory, and that every moment we teeter on chaos and oblivion.

Neil Gaiman says that a book is a dream that you hold in your hands. Given that my dreams are a rich source of material for much of what you read here, I felt that this quote was especially relevant. You’ll have to forgive the dreamlike quality present in some of these tales. I am merely dreaming out loud, trying, as always, to tap into that universal unconscious and into those most primal of themes.

I would petition readers to enjoy Scenes… for what it is: a collection of odd tales. I hesitate to call these stories horror stories, preferring instead to use the more modern (and more appropriate) label, speculative fiction. It is my hope that you enjoy these strange little stories as much as I’ve enjoyed writing (and dreaming) them.

Michael Picco, April 11, 2016

Denver, Colorado

Acknowledgements

In bringing {a project} to a close… the writer wishes also to record an expression of his gratitude to those friends who offered every encouragement during the formative period of this work and who never lost faith in its ultimate fruition. Mere thanks seem hollow in comparison with such loyal cooperation; but great is the satisfaction the writer enjoys when he can at last say to all those whose faith has been unbounded, ‘It is finished.’

Edward S. Curtis, Introduction to The North American Indian… Vol. XX

Nothing is created in a vacuum. This is especially true in regard to writing.

In composing Scenes…, I frequently reached out to more knowledgeable members of the community to educate me on the finer points of these stories. For their time, help, and insight, I am very grateful. You have made this book better than I could have on my own. I’ve tried to give credit where credit is due in the author’s notes for these contributions, but if I overlooked anybody, I am sorry.

For those folks who provided inspiration, feedback or emotional support (no small task that last one, as we writers tend to be a morose and fatalistic lot), I can only offer my gratitude in return (which, when compared to these contributions, seems a paltry and small thing, but it is genuine and heartfelt — of that I can assure you.).

A special thanks goes out to my folks, Pegi and Willoughby. I honestly couldn’t have completed this project without your love and support. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to complete this project in my own time — you know, letting me write write.

For those of you who supported my failed Kickstarter Campaign, you have my thanks. In particular, I want to thank the Agents Of The Seraphim Contributors: Mark Clodi and Jeremy Greene; the Platinum Level Contributors: Sharon Van Dyke and Debbie Richardson; and the Gold Level Contributors: Randy Connell, William Belcher, and Kathy Amen. Of course, thanks to everyone else who contributed to this campaign. Even though the campaign failed to fund, I felt it was a success.

And, of course, thanks to the test readers and editors, Erinn Kemper (my superb HWA mentor), and to Pete Kahle, N. Apythia Morges, and Leo X. Robertson for allowing me to republish various pieces from their collections in this one.

And, last but not least, Ros Morales, who, despite moving around the world and enduring all sorts of political upheaval, never dropped the ball on the frontispiece illustration. She made it better than I ever could have — and for that, I am grateful.

All of Yesterday’s Yesterdays

The sign beside the road read THE CARNIVAL LOUNGE.

The faded sign leaned over a nearly deserted and heavily potholed parking lot. Under the glare of the neon light, the driveway looked like the surface of the moon. Mare Potholium. Craterium Carnivalus, she thought absently. The restaurant itself seemed to have collapsed into the dusty landscape, cast beside the roadway like so much road kill. A ‘64 white Econoline truck towing a decaying boat seemed to have been marooned near the entrance. Her subcompact scraped and jounced over the ancient asphalt as she gingerly made her way to the nearest vacant parking space.

Since leaving Parga, she’d glimpsed only the occasional farmhouse or single-wide trailer beyond the dim pool of her headlights. In the shadowy confines of these far-flung outposts, the flicker of televisions flashed epileptically, the long shadows of transfixed viewers spilling out onto bleak yards filled with sagebrush, dust, and darkness. Occasionally, the bark of a dog would pierce the wall of wind before fading into the unending drone of tires on pavement.

She noticed the dim open sign flickering erratically in her rearview mirror, looking more like a guttering candle flame than an advertisement. Of course, she was used to Vegas — bright lights, big city. What sort of display way out here could compare to all that dazzling illumination? Thick gray dust coated her windshield, and for a moment, she wondered if she should just keep driving. She could be back home in just a few hours. Getting a cheap meal somewhere on the Strip would undoubtedly be better than whatever horrible Happy Meal came out of the Carnival Lounge.

She reminded herself that it wouldn’t hurt to take a break. After all, she had only pulled over to use the bathroom. And maybe stretch these aching legs of mine. How long had she been driving, anyway? After nightfall, the hours bled together. The clock on the dashboard flashed 11:11. But then, it hadn’t worked right since that cable had come loose last year.

She pulled the rearview mirror toward her and checked her makeup. Ray would have said something hateful to her then. Something barbed and needlessly cruel. Something like you look like pounded dog shit, there, Sweetheart. Callous: that’s just the way he was. Well, let’s face it, Sweetheart: you do look like pounded dog shit, she thought. The mileage of the last couple of days showed. It seemed to her that all of yesterday’s yesterdays were pressing down on her — crushing her. Her eyeliner had melted into dark cadaverous smears beneath her eyes. She slapped the mirror away and dug through her purse for a tissue she knew wasn’t there. She resisted the urge to pick a used one off the floorboard, and instead ran her fingers under her eyes. The remaining mascara clumped and stung, and for a moment, her vision was clouded by grease. She cursed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving black streaks — like skid marks — nearly to her temples. There! Fresh as a daisy! she heard her mother’s voice in her head. Don’t you look just like a little raccoon?

She could smell the rancid fryolator as soon as she stepped out of the car. The muffled twang of a steel guitar drifted across the battered asphalt lot, mingling with the dry desert wind. A sudden gust pelted her with grit and she cursed, trying to shield her eyes. Her attention was drawn to a fresh scrape gouged into the car door. She kneeled down and tried rubbing the scratch away, but the damaged paint flaked off in her hand. Mom will have my ass for that, she thought absently. Then she remembered that her mother was beyond caring about cars or chipped paint.

She wiped away an abrupt tear, her hand stiff from long hours clutching the wheel. She cursed again and slowly stood up. Her left knee popped and protested, the torn cartilage grinding against bone. She wouldn’t be dancing again anytime soon. Not without surgery, at least. And probably not afterward, either. Maybe she could try her hand as a cocktail waitres; they seemed to make decent money. Not the kind of money that the dancers made, certainly, but enough to live on, right? She’d always pitied those poor girls. They seemed to bear the brunt of the misplaced aggression and sexual frustration at the clubs. She remembered one of the shots girls (…what was her name? Amanda?) who had bruises all across her ass from guys pinching and slapping her as she walked by. How the men would force her to sit on their laps while she tried not to spill the tray of watered down shots.

"Not all devils have horns." Her mother’s voice, again — cold and sad, echoing across the years. No new revelation there, although it struck her as odd that this crossed her mind now. She navigated her way delicately across the cratered parking lot, only stumbling once as a pebble turned unexpectedly under her heel. Halfway between the car and the lounge, the wind stopped, and, for a moment, all she could hear was the insectoid buzz of the neon sign. She glanced at it, noting absently that its faded windswept paint was chipped and peeling. The light sputtered then and the darkness collapsed around her like a wave. She cursed again and turned back toward the bar, not noticing the stark and empty silence that accompanied the darkness.

She caught her reflection in one of the lounge’s fly-specked windows as she stepped past a weathered porch swing propped up on cinder blocks. Heavy shadows carved canyons into her features, and in that very instant, it was as though she had seen a ghost — a grim and hollow specter of herself. She ran her hand through her hair, trying to give it body, but it hung listlessly in the parched air. The dusty window did not conceal the look of disgust that flashed across her face. No rest for the wicked, Annie. Her mother’s voice, so crystalline and clear… it was almost as though she was standing next to her. Maybe that was her mother’s version of heaven: tormenting her daughter from beyond the grave.

A pall of grease, cigarette smoke, and stale beer engulfed her as she stepped through the bar door, the groaning hinges turning several heads in her direction. The lounge was empty but for a few grizzled patrons who sat hunched and scattered around the room. The jukebox played Johnny Cash’s A Boy Named Sue. Tall tables flanked a long line of bar stools that disappeared into the shadows at the back of the bar. A long, low whistle emanated from somewhere out of the darkness. She couldn’t decide if it was appreciative or derisive (and she really didn’t care), but judging from the look of some of the men, it wasn’t likely that they saw many women out here.

In a place like this, I’ll probably have to order something before I can use the bathroom, she thought tiredly. She’d seen too many places along the way with signs warning: Toilets are for paying customers only. She set her purse on top of the bar and wriggled indelicately onto one of the stools. The cold caress of vinyl gave way to the adhesive pluck of wrinkled duct tape that clung to the bulging tears over its surface. She pawed through her purse for her wallet, reassured by the gleam of her .22 pistol in the dim light.

A bartender seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He wore one of those shirts typical for a man his age: dull beige with an embroidered collar and faux mother-of-pearl snap buttons. Old sweat combined with hair pomade stained the ridge of his neckband a mottled grayish yellow. A gaudy turquoise bolo tie hung tightly below a waddled and pock-marked neck. A tuft of gray whiskers jutted from his chin, matching the hair sprouting from his ears and nose. A flava saver — that’s what Ray would have called the oddly trimmed patch of facial hair on the bartender’s lower lip. He wore a battered name badge that might have said Sharon at one time, only now the ‘s’ had been scratched down. "A Boy Named Sue" and a bartender named Sharon—what are the odds? He gave Annie a smile that made her lose her appetite altogether. Avoiding his fierce blue eyes, Annie fumbled and dropped her purse. It crashed onto the bar with a heavy clunk that seemed to overpower the jukebox. The mumble of conversation halted momentarily. The bartender leered more keenly and asked what she was drinking.

Martini, Annie replied absently. Nolet’s, if you have it. A double, please.

Nolet’s. Right. The man limped off to the other end of the bar. Annie noticed an oar-like cane propped up beside the cash register. Etched down its thick shaft were the words, If found, return to the Oblivion.

Where are your bathrooms? she called after the bartender, maybe a little too loudly.

Crapper’s back there. He tilted his head to the darkened recesses of the lounge. Light switch is on your right, above the jukebox. She heard one of the nearby patrons chuckle and felt the fire of anger and embarrassment alight on her cheeks. Snatching her purse off the bar, she pivoted off the stool and made her way into the darkness. A begrimed light switch emerged from out of the cigarette haze, and Annie slapped it with a vengeance. A flimsy-looking wooden door appeared to her right, marked with a permanent marker that read Womans. She ducked inside, quickly locking the door behind her. Before she could turn, something startled by the light squeaked and scurried away.

She chanced a look at herself in the mirror. Awash in the sodium lamplight, a sallow face regarded her. In that reflection, she saw a woman well past her prime and showing it. You’re a train wreck, Sissy. She shook her head. But maybe not completely beyond redemption. A roll of paper towels sat atop the empty dispenser. Neither one looked like they’d been touched in years. A water stain ran red down one corner of the small room, a twin to the rust staining the sink. Inexplicably, a urinal hung on the wall next to the sink, the deodorant cake cracked and desiccated. A hand-lettered sign was taped over the front of the urinal: broke: dont use. The pipes rattled as she ran foul-smelling water into the small sink. The water smelled hard, as though it had leeched all the minerals out of the surrounding hills.

She took a long pull on the paper towels and soaked them beneath the tepid water. An empty powdered-soap dispenser rattled beneath her hand, and she swore under her breath. Plain old water will have to do, I guess, she thought, scrubbing the makeup from her eyes. Glancing into the mirror, she realized that her makeup had concealed puffy, bloodshot eyes. That and a corpse-like stare — seemingly devoid of emotion or humanity.

Tired. You’re just tired, Annie, she told herself as she washed the makeup from her face. She reminded herself that she could sleep ‘til noon tomorrow and forget this whole hellish trip. She’d forget about her mother’s funeral. And, she’d forget about this hillbilly bar in the middle of nowhere. She still had a long road ahead of her — between here and home. Between her old life and her new one. But she’d forget about it all after snorting a few lines, lounging by the poolside, and letting the Vegas sun burn away her cares.

She dug through her purse, eyes blurry, searching for her snuff pendant. It had a way of disappearing, blending in with the myriad tubes of lip gloss and mascara. The tiny faux emerald embedded on the front of the pendant winked from under the .22. She carefully unscrewed the cap (which conveniently doubled as a spoon) and tapped the pendant on the Formica vanity. Annie sighed. The trip had taken its toll on her road supply. She bent over, her lower back stiff and aching, and quickly snorted the razor-thin line. The familiar cocaine burn slowly faded to an icy-clear numbness, scouring away her fatigue. She carefully ran her finger over the scant residue, rubbing it on to her gums. It left a hard mineral taste in her mouth.

Something with small, sharp claws scuttled inside the walls.

She used the toilet, trying to ignore the red hard-water stain that cascaded from the tank and pooled in a bloody ring around the bowl. It’s not like it’s blood, she told herself. Even if it looks like it. And it was clean enough, if for no other reason than from disuse. And let’s face it, Sissy: any toilet you find here is going to be better than squatting behind a clump of sagebrush out there along the highway! There’s probably a big ol’ eight-foot rattlesnake hiding out under there, just waiting to bite a big, juicy white ass like yours.

This was rattlesnake country — no doubt about that. She’d driven over dozens of snake carcasses already flattened on the road, not knowing or caring whether they were rattlesnakes or not… only paying attention to that sickening sound of small bones being ground down into dust under her merciless wheels.

She wondered absently if the nerves in their broken bodies still fired. Did those creatures know pain, even in death? After all, she’d seen a snake’s head survive for several minutes after it was removed from its body. People still felt phantom pain in severed limbs for years. Could the converse be true too? Would the nerves continue to send tiny signals filled with pain to a consciousness that simply wasn’t there? Could the dead feel?

Through the thin walls, she could hear one of the male patrons urinating next door. She squirmed uncomfortably, listening to a man’s fingers tap an unsteady rhythm against the porcelain urinal next door. His hand slammed down on the flush lever and Annie jolted at the water’s howling roar as the basin emptied. It seemed to drown out everything then: the muffled din of the jukebox outside; the discordant conversation; her train of thought. Growing up without a brother or father, she had never gotten used to the bodily sounds of men. And attending an all-girls Catholic school had only served to retard her awareness further.

She remembered a new girl in school who had argued against the torments of hell. She stated, quite reasonably, that without a corporeal body, you had no nervous system, so you could no longer feel pain. Pain without a body is impossible, she’d said. The instructor — an old, narrow-lipped nun — had scowled and explained that spiritual torments were just as painful as physical ones. Even without a body, there was no freedom from torment for the damned. They’d endure the outer limits of pain commensurate with the sins that they had committed in life. Annie had always considered the argument not all pain was physical to be valid, especially as she grew older. There were torments far worse than those inflicted by hot pokers and pitchforks.

"And Hell is closer than you think," Ray’s voice cooed in her mind, cool and smooth and venomous. She remembered how his breath had tasted the first time they kissed: stale clove cigarettes mixed with tequila and rock salt. She remembered that first glorious line of cocaine they shared. Lost in her reverie, she could almost smell that hint of sulfurous musk in his cologne. His hand slowly moving along the curve of her hip, tracing the line of her G-string. Then his hand resting on her ass. Like he owned her. She shook her head. If the devil existed, his name was Ray Porter. For all the talk of the world’s evils, nothing at St. Mary’s School For Exceptional Girls had prepared her for the likes of him.

* * *

A drunk stumbled past her as she exited the bathroom. He shambled through the darkness like a revenant. He mumbled something as he passed but didn’t acknowledge Annie’s startled look of disgust. What language was he speaking? Arabic? No, it sounded different. Russian, maybe? Greek?

She made her way back to the bar. The lights seemed dimmer now — no doubt, her eyes were still adjusting from the unforgiving glare in the bathroom. And yet, she couldn’t help but feel that the lounge had somehow lost some of its essence during her brief absence. Everything seemed faded — almost insubstantial. That is, all but the perspiring drink waiting for her at the bar. That appeared real enough, and she fixated on it.

The napkin tucked beneath the rocks glass was yellowed and tattered along one edge, as though it had been gnawed by something with sharp, tiny teeth. A yellowish-orange cocktail parasol skewered an olive garnish that looked way past its expiration date. The bitter orb gleamed an oily, mushy gray-green in the dim bar light. She plucked it out of the glass and threw it onto the bar. Nasty…

No Nolet’s. The bartender stated flatly. Carnaby’s is all I have.

Carnaby’s it is, then. She tipped her glass to the bartender and took a long swallow. The bottom-shelf gin tasted watery and sour in her mouth. A harsh metallic aftertaste lingered in the back of her throat, coating it like rust.

Facing the bar, she surveyed the lounge from its reflection in the dusty bar mirror. The other patrons loomed in and out of the darkness, moving through the insubstantial light like specters. The place was bigger than it appeared from the outside but no less savory. Long, narrow windows perched high above luridly painted cinder block walls. Although unusual, the unifying theme of the amateur paintings was not lost on Annie. She immediately recognized the pictures of campy amusement park rides, the array of exotic creatures and fervent carnies. They did little to dispel the dismal atmosphere of the place, and instead only served to amplify it — sharpening it to manic proportions.

Through the thick cigarette smoke, she glimpsed a carousel horse rendered in such a way that it appeared to be caught mid-gallop, its eyes rolling wildly as it choked and strained on its frothy bit. One lurid painting featured a horrified and buxom blond straddling a phallic Soviet-era bomb as it rocketed toward the bar. Nearer to the doorway, a group of featureless children were depicted boarding a ride reminiscent of a giant black octopus — its tentacle-like spokes suspended at impossible angles in the air. And along one wall, garish carnival signs advertised: See Gashadokuro: The Incredible Living Skeleton Man! Witness Elliot S., The Human Pincushion! Stare in Wonder at Princess Persephoneia: The Albino Regent of the Underworld!

Movement from the rear of the bar distracted her. Another drunk emerged from the bathroom, his head heavily bandaged and his right arm confined in a sling held snugly to his chest. The other patrons seemed to avoid him as he stumbled to his seat, his head hanging from his narrow shoulders. He stared listlessly around the lounge, his eyes distant and brooding. Suddenly, his gaze turned her way and for a moment, in the mirror’s reflection, their eyes met. Even from a distance, the man’s pupils looked like pits. Annie shuddered and quickly looked away, feigning sudden interest in her drink.

I need to get the hell outta here. How much for this? Annie asked, digging through her purse.

Five, the bartender said, wiping the dust off a glass. Plus the ferry fee, of course.

What? Annie was certain she’d heard that wrong. Five bucks plus…?

The bartender smiled thinly. You can call it a docking fee, or a transport fee, or a passenger ticket — whatever you prefer.

A docking fee? What the hell…Listen, I’m really tired…

For the crossing. The barkeeper interrupted. A simple obol will do.

What in the hell is an "obol"? Was that Spanish or Indian for something? An… o-ball?

A coin, he said, setting the polished glass aside. Most passengers find it under their tongues.

Okay… Annie said, forcing a thin smile. Clearly, the bartender was trying to screw with her. Perhaps in another place, she might have found this sort of joke amusing, but not tonight.

"Well, I am fresh out of o-balls — whatever those are. And I’m pretty sure there isn’t anything tucked under my tongue. She drained the remainder of her drink. Maybe you can change a twenty for me?"

The bartender’s face darkened. The drone of the other patrons began to diminish into whispers. I don’t accept paper currency. It doesn’t fare well in the heat, you see, He smirked, as if amused by some private joke. I take only coins or the like.

Okay… Whatever! This guy doesn’t know when to quit. Here’s my credit card instead.

The bartender glowered, his brow furrowed. No credit. Machine is… down. Annie heard several of the patrons behind her chuckle nervously.

Do you have coin or not? he asked again. There was an obvious menace in his tone now. If he’d been joking before, he wasn’t now.

Annie started to panic. The coke wasn’t helping, but she had learned to cope with the incipient paranoia. She glanced at the mirror behind the bar. The eyes of the lounge’s patrons glinted in the darkness behind her — predatory and hard.

I have some change… she mumbled. Maybe even enough to cover my drink and whatever the hell the bartender was talking about. She dug a fistful of coins out of her change purse and dumped them onto the counter. The bar behind her became unnaturally quiet.

Lessee… Annie muttered as she sorted through the pile of coins. There’s one dollar… two… She carefully counted out the change, sliding the quarters across the tacky bar top. Two ninety-five… she continued, exhausting her supply of dimes. She glanced up at the bartender. He glowered at her. What