Using my big toe, painted black with a little red rose, I flip open the shoe box, revealing my satin red spiked heels. My heart skips at the sight of them, and my lips twitch at the small rust stain that tarnishes the side of one of the heels near the point. These are my lucky shoes. I’ve worn them on almost every hunt. So versatile, so beautiful…so deadly. You wouldn’t believe how cool it sounds to stomp the tip of one of these suckers into someone’s eye, especially a dirty, rotten scumbag who tries to take advantage of you, thinking you’re intoxicated. The joke was on that guy. Pop goes the weasel. That was a couple of years ago. I’ve become more reserved and careful since then.
After turning off most of my lights, I lock my front door and climb behind the wheel of my 2024 Cadillac CT4. It’s not brand-new like I wanted, but it had fewer than a thousand miles on it, and I got it for a great deal from an elderly woman whose husband had recently passed, not long after he’d bought it for himself. Mr. Solarman’s entire bone structure was sold within a week after his skull, netting profits of over ten thousand dollars. I sold my Audi, used the funds from that and a small loan to purchase this midnight black beauty of a ride. Every time I sink into the luxury leather seats, it brings a smile to my face.
Clemson is just over twenty minutes from my house, and a Halloween bar crawl is going on, so it’s the perfect opportunity to find someone willing to come home with me. As I drive out of town, parents lingering on the sidewalks, watching their children scurry from one house with their lights still on to the next, stare at me with judgmental eyes.
I shoot them a sinister smile and continue on my adventure. They don’t know me, not really, and they never will.
College Avenue is Clemson’s main strip, and it’s currently alive with ghouls, goblins, and Waldo’s dressed to the hilt,entering and exiting bars and restaurants. I pull to the curb down the street from a group of bars participating in the crawl—a trifecta of opportunities lying before me.
My window vibrates as someone smacks it with their palm, startling me. I turn my head, and a man wearing Scottish attire, carrying a set of bagpipes, lifts his kilt. My eyes widen at the tip of a small cock, barely visible from within the pile of hair surrounding it. I shake my head at the man, a truly handsome man indeed, but one not blessed with a dick worth riding.
His friend, dressed like the Grim Reaper with a skeleton-painted face, slaps the plaid-wearing drunk’s kilt down and waves at me through the window, mouthing an apology before continuing down the sidewalk. I hope there are more suitable choices inside, or I might be in trouble.
I begrudgingly climb from my car, shut the door softly, and stalk toward the bar straight ahead of me.
My heels click quickly across the street as a woman dressed as Xena Warrior Princess sees me coming and holds the door for me. I murmur a pleasant thank you and enter the darkened space.
It’s humid and stuffy inside, likely due to the overcrowded environment. I can barely move through the sea of costumed patrons as I make my way across the room to the bar. Lights from a disco ball cast glittery, colorful specks around the room, dotting patrons’ faces like sprinkles on a soft-serve twist. I weave around a group of people standing in a circle, talking, and wedge myself sideways between a couple of men at the bar so I can order a drink.
The scent of armpit singes my nose hairs as the bartender leans toward me and places a coaster by my hand. “What can I get you, sweetheart?”
His sweetheart comment sends a painful ping to my abdomen, a reminder of what happened at the biker bar rushing backbriefly before I shove it back into the depths of my mind where my trauma lives.
Nose plugs for starters, I think to myself, recovering quickly from my intrusive memory. I look away from his prying brown eyes and the unibrow over them, glance at the specials board on the wall, and shout over the crowd, “Blood Thirsty Martini, please.”
I mean, it’s an obvious choice.
The bartender nods as I drop a twenty-dollar bill on the dark walnut bar top, scratched in various places from years of abuse.
It’s kind of like me in a way. Etching and scars mark my body subtly here and there. Most of my tarnished skin is unnoticeable, hidden from the public eye by the clothes I wear, but others, like the gnarly scar from my car accident long ago, could only be reduced in size by plastic surgery. I don’t mind it anymore, though. I come up with all kinds of ways it happened when people ask, avoiding the truth.
Bobis carved into the once-smooth finish of the bar top. I trace my fingertips over the three letters, feeling their texture as a dark crimson drink clanks beside my hand. The bartender winks and covers the money I gave him before stuffing it into his pocket. I don’t bother waiting for change; I know better, as I’ve been here before. You don’t get change unless you specifically request it. Otherwise, the assumption is that the remaining balance is their tip.
Greedy fuckers.
I sink into a tattered and torn leather seat in the corner and toss my cape over the silver metal back. A green-tinted lantern above me, with a little plastic skeleton decoration hanging from it, swings back and forth, ever so slightly, every time the front door of the bar swings open. A slight breeze swoops through, carrying the hot, stale air out the back exit, held open a few inches by a rock.
It’s become a habit of mine to always sit near a way out—an open window, a door, a thin wall I can bust through like the Kool-Aid man.
There’s nothing worse than being trapped inside an enclosed space when a bunch of drunks decide to brawl with each other.
My mind wanders back to the past, taking me on a journey that leads me to this moment. I’ve come so far in five years. From being a high school graduate making a deal with the devil to save my soul and living with my parents, driving my grandma’s rickety old Nova, to becoming a successful artist and homeowner who drives a Cadillac and wears name-brand clothes instead of Walmart specials.
A prickling sensation dances across my cheeks, the pleasant thoughts of where and who I am now—powerful, confident, and alluring melt away any doubts I have about my future endeavors.
My next move is an isolated mansion filled with fireplaces where I can lure multiple men under false pretenses to give my lover the face he deserves, even if it’s only for a short while.
I cross my legs, lifting the end of my dress above my knees, and immediately catch the attention of a familiar face. The Grim Reaper, whose friend showed me his minuscule penis a short time ago, tilts his head, his eyes locked on my legs as his Scottish-dressed friend speaks loudly in his ear. His dark eyes drift from my legs to my eyes, then linger on my lips as I raise my drink by its stem and take a small sip. I smack my lips together, relishing the sweet yet strong beverage as the Reaper hops off his wooden barstool and strolls over to me, confidence radiating off him like the vibrations of a speaker at a concert.
He sets his beer beside my martini, the chair scraping harshly against the floor as he pulls it back and drops into the seat across from me. Condensation races down the side of his Coors bottle, creating a wet circle on the table. He lifts the drink, and I watchas he takes a massive swig before smacking the empty bottle down on the table with a loudclank.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, his eyes set on mine.
I tap the side of my glass with my pointed nail and say, “I have one.”
He leans forward, moving his empty bottle from between us and rests his folded arms on the table. “Well, drink up, Buttercup, so that I can buy you another.”
Buttercup?
