This was born from the dregs of a recent campy horror/exploitation film binge - it's probably the most out-there story I've written to date, and it's summer, so please don't judge me. It's an AU, set in 1980's San Diego, and should in no way be taken seriously. In America. I know I should be updating my other stories, but inspiration is a fickle mistress.
Warnings: This story does/will contain profanity, drug references, gore, and thematic elements. What are those thematic elements, you ask? Don't. The rating is T but it will certainly go up to M in the next chapter. What would you expect from something that takes place in Malik's head? Needless to say, in no way do I encourage drug use, swearing or gratuitous violence – but if you are one of those sensitive souls I keep hearing about, move on to brighter halls.
Disclaimer: The characters do in no way belong to me. Mai Valentine? Certainly not! She even goes by her last name in this story, you'll see.
ʘ
There was a booming crack of thunder outside, and I winced. The rain was already bad – it was coming down so hard it sounded like radio static – and apparently there was going to be a storm as well. I was right; a moment later the thunder was followed by a flash of lightning, so bright it lit up the entire room all the way to the back of the bar, where Joey, the local homeless guy, was still busy working the pinball machine. I could see the purple-flowered jacaranda trees outside silhouetted for a brief second before the darkness came flooding back.
"Shit," said Valentine, morosely. She was sitting alone at the bar, a half-empty glass in front of her, and the lamp overhead cast a pool of light around her, illuminating her golden hair and the motes of dust that floated in the surrounding air. If I didn't know her, I might have found the scene enchanting, in a sordid kind of way. She leaned her chin on her hand. "Wrath of God, huh?"
I just shrugged and topped up her gin.
"Aw hell, Malik," she said, and giggled. "You know I can't spend any more money."
"This one's on the house," I told her. "We're gonna be here for a while, it looks like."
She laughed delightedly and called me a sweetie pie. She called a lot of people sweetie pie. After a moment of deliberation I poured one for myself too and she raised her glass to me.
"To a hundred years of good luck," she said. "Starting now."
As if to punctuate this statement, there was another rolling boom from outside, this one louder than before. As I tipped back my drink, I noticed the corner of the ceiling was dripping.
"God damn it," I muttered, and started searching around under the bar for a pan or something to catch the water. It took me a long time to find it – and when I finally did, it was rusty. Better than nothing, anyway.
As far as drinking establishments go, this is a pretty half-assed one – even by local standards. There are mice in the walls, the mirror behind the bar is cracked, half the barstools have something wrong with them, and now the icing on the cake – apparently the roof leaks. The one thing this place has going in its favor is that you can get drunk fast on a budget; we offer only the cheapest bottom-shelf brands for the less-than-discerning palate. A quick look behind the bar will reveal "Ma and Pa's Genuine Russian Vodka" (distilled in Tennessee), Everclear (ever a popular order), and some kind of foul-looking knockoff rum called "Admiral Nelson" among other such delightful refreshments. It just figures it's the place I spend most of my waking life.
It was a Monday night, around one in the morning, and the pace of business was even more glacial than usual due to the weather. Valentine had been waiting to meet someone for several hours, and it was pretty clear at this point they weren't gonna show up. I'd have offered to give her a ride back home, but one of my headlights was gone and stepping outside was like walking under Niagara Falls – trying to drive at night right now would have been suicide. I could only hope the rain let up soon. Usually I would have been closing up right about then, and Joey would have gone to sleep at his usual spot under the awning (I let him camp out there provided he was gone by eleven the next morning) but the inclement weather had ruined our little setup. Joey wasn't complaining.
The pinball machine had gotten screwed up somehow a number of years ago – some idiot had jammed a piece of cardboard in the coin slot and nobody had bothered to have it fixed, so now you could play for free. This was veritable manna from heaven, as far as Joey was concerned. I used to think the jangly electronic music was kind of annoying at first, but now I didn't even hear it anymore.
Joey finally decided to call it quits and came over to the bar. I gave him a free drink too. Being melancholy makes me generous.
"Here's mud in your eye," he said with a grin, before emptying the glass.
"What does that even mean?" I asked him. As far as toasts went, it sounded kind of offensive – not that I hadn't heard worse, of course.
"Eh, beats me." Joey shrugged with all the laissez-faire he could muster. "My dad always said it."
Valentine started complaining to Joey about the guy she was supposed to meet who had never showed up. It was probably just some john, but she seemed down in the dumps about it, so maybe it was something more. Joey had had a thing for her for about as long as I'd been working at that dump, which was too long. Valentine seemed totally oblivious to this fact most of the time. She only really talked to him when she was wasted (like right now) and it was usually about some other guy. Sometimes I wondered if she had any idea she was breaking his heart. I knew Joey knew he didn't have a chance with her – not unless he paid for it, and he wasn't the type to do something like that, even if he had had the money. And, anyway, from the way he looked at her sometimes, I was pretty sure he wanted a different kind of chance. Thinking about that messed-up situation put me in an even worse mood than I was already, so (perspicacious fellow that I am) I decided to do something about it. With a mumbled excuse, I slipped away to the bathroom, closed the door behind me, and cracked open an amyl.
That familiar dizzy feeling came over me again, like the world had started spinning in the wrong direction – it was stronger than usual since I'd been drinking, and I leaned against the sink for a moment until it passed. Then I did another big hit off the amyl and turned around to face myself.
The mirror wasn't dirty – I'd washed it enough times – but crude drawings, one-liners and phone numbers were scribbled across the surface, the souvenir of various bored patrons. What they'd written with, God only knew, but the graffiti was impossible to get off. Behind the crazily scrawled lines, my reflection looked back at me with bright eyes. I was starting to feel too warm; it was kicking in. I'd been sweating all evening in the humid air – the San Diego Padres t-shirt I'd pulled on this morning was damp, and my hair was clinging to the back of my neck. I touched the icy-cool surface of the mirror and imagined my fingers melting into it, coming away tipped with sticky strands of quicksilver.
When I came back out again, I was filled with a kind of wild joy. My heart was beating a mile a minute, and the blood hit my head like I'd just fallen in love. Joey was still sitting at the counter next to Valentine, tracing the rings of water left by the glasses. He glanced up at me and raised his eyebrows at me quizzically. He looked so clueless, behind that tangle of blonde hair, so goofy and sweet, that I couldn't help but burst out in a paroxysm of helpless laughter.
"Somebody's feelin' happy," he commented. "You must have heard a real good joke in there."
He was used to me acting a little weird after hours, but I was pretty sure he hadn't figured out why. Valentine was too trashed to even notice. She was slumped over, gazing into the liquid depths of her gin. One strap of her black tank top had slipped down her shoulder, revealing the edge of a hot pink lacy bra – she didn't seem to care.
"You know what?" she said suddenly, with more than her customary vehemence. "I hope Keith drowns out there."
"Amen," said Joey, sympathetically. "To be honest I always thought he was a creep anyway."
"Don't say that," Valentine moaned.
The tacky Christmas lights that adorned the bar all year round were glowing so bright they were practically buzzing. I noticed a few of the bulbs had gone dead. Conversation be damned, I decided, I was putting on some music.
The radio at the end of the bar was on its last legs – a few too many people had spilled beverages on it over the years, and due to the storm, it was barely getting any stations. I was in luck though – it tuned into some oldies metal hour, and after some announcer got done talking about auto insurance, a familiar riff oozed through the speakers. Don't Fear The Reaper.
Ah, good memories. I loved this song. I turned it up and started polishing some glasses, singing along under my breath. I couldn't stop smiling but I didn't care. Let it rain.
But just when it came to that awesome guitar solo in the middle, there was another flash of lightning. The station sputtered suddenly like it had been strangled from behind, and then it degenerated into white noise. I thumped the boombox, but it didn't help.
Now there was only the sound of Valentine's slurred voice – still talking about that guy, no doubt – and Joey shifting on the squeaky barstool. And the rain, coming down as hard as ever, like the second deluge or something. The rush was gone by now, and the inevitable headache was starting. Just as I was considering downing a couple of aspirin with a slug of Ma and Pa's, however, the bright yellow glare of headlights shone through the front window, moving along the back wall of the room and casting into sharp relief the shadow of every raindrop on the glass.
And there was another sound, underneath the downpour. Motorcycle engines – several of them. They were loud, so they were probably American – Harley-Davidsons, in all likelihood, but I couldn't say for sure. The angry rumble of the engines faded into a purr, and then died with the ignition. Usually I say the more the merrier – better tips for me - but I got a bad feeling. Maybe they just wanted to get out of the rain for a bit, but generally speaking, at one thirty AM on a Monday night on the outskirts of San Diego, a gang of bikers storming the palace is rarely a good thing.
Their steel-toed boots clicked against the pavement as they approached; Valentine groaned and slumped down even further.
"Just what this day needs," she mumbled.
"Huh?" Joey glanced out the window and considerately thought to fix her top.
Before I could even consider locking the door, it was too late – it flew open with a bang against the opposite wall, and five guys barged in. The room suddenly seemed to get a lot smaller. They were all wearing black leather jackets, all soaking wet, and all looking mean as hell. Without a word, one of them slammed the door shut again, and another propped a chair up at an angle underneath the doorknob. The rest of them started to grab more furniture and began barricading the door.
I'd been watching in stunned silence – it had all happened so fast it seemed like I was watching a movie – but I finally regained control of my faculties. "Hey!" I shouted. "What do you think you're doing? We're closed!"
One of the guys turned around, and from the first instant I laid eyes on him, I knew he was in charge. "Well," he said, in a voice like poisoned velvet, "I guess you're open now, aren't you?"
There was a smile on his face, but he had the distinct air of a man who was not in a mood to be fucked with. His skin was the same color as mine, but he might as well have been a different species. He was six feet tall and then some, and he looked like he could have thrown me across the room with one arm. There was a particularly savage-looking scar underneath his right eye, like someone had tried to slice up his face and enjoyed doing it. His pale grey hair was dripping from the rain. There was blood on his shirt, I noticed. Didn't look like it was his. Joey and Valentine were frozen where they sat on the other side of the bar.
His grey eyes bored into me, as if daring me to do something. I took him up on it.
"If you're not going to order a drink," I spat, "what the fuck are you doing here?"
"Regrouping," he said flatly, and turned away. Just when I remembered the rifle we kept underneath the bar in case of just such a situation, he pulled a Glock out of the back of his jeans. So much for that idea. It must have been a cue, because the rest of the goon squad pulled out their guns as well. Their leader went to the window and looked out through the rain, carefully, watching for something. Valentine caught my eye and I guess she could tell I was about to say something – she slowly shook her head, eyes wide in warning. I didn't blame her for being scared – hell, I was scared too – after all, we couldn't really get out and God only knew what they were planning. But even though it may not have my bar, damn it, I was in charge here, at least for the moment.
"If you're planning a shootout," I told him, starting to feel a little hysterical, "you'd better take it somewhere else, because - "
He casually swung the barrel of the Glock around so it was aimed in the general direction of my head. I broke off suddenly.
"It's loaded," he said tensely. "Are you going to make trouble?"
My t-shirt felt clammy all of a sudden. I shook my head. My mouth had stopped working.
"Good boy," he said, turning back and opening the window. "Let's try to be friends, huh?"
One of the other bikers – a broad-shouldered guy with dreadlocks - grinned at me. This overture of goodwill was somewhat compromised by the Beretta he had cocked at his shoulder. He could have passed for a young Rick James' shadier twin. Another guy, who sported mirror shades and a cowboy mustache, decided it was time for a cigarette. I decided not to say anything. The gun had given me a bad scare.
Rain had started to pool on the floor through the open window. Nobody was talking – they were all waiting for something although I didn't know what it was. Probably some other gang. Biker intrigue bullshit. Like I didn't have enough of this crap to deal with on a daily basis. I gazed longingly at the pay phone in the corner. To make a move for it, however, would probably be death.
A dim streetlamp cast a faint pool of light in the parking lot, and with a jolt I suddenly noticed a group of people approaching from the highway. It was impossible to make out anything but their shadowy forms crossing the pavement – but there were a hell of a lot of them. Fifteen or twenty, at least. Carefully, the dreadlocked guy opened another window. The mob didn't seem to be in any hurry. I couldn't see enough to tell if they were armed or not.
"Now!" yelled the gang leader, and there was an immediate barrage of gunfire. It was deafening. Joey swore and yanked Valentine down under the counter. I ducked for cover too, hands over my ears. It went on for five seconds, then ten – and then it suddenly stopped.
"They've scattered!" someone shouted.
"Pendejos!" screamed another, the pitch of his voice rising. "Vete al diablo!"
"We didn't get them all." I heard the windows slam shut again.
Cautiously, I rose to my feet. Nothing was broken as far as I could see; apparently the enemies hadn't been firing back. The grey-haired guy was reloading his gun. One of his cohorts, a Mexican-looking individual with an eyepatch, was taking boxes of ammunition out of the inner pockets of his jacket and stacking them on a nearby table. Jesus, I wondered, how many did he have in there?
"Think that'll scare 'em off, ese?" he asked.
"Who knows?" It was their boss. He sounded surprisingly sane for someone who'd opened fire on human beings not thirty seconds ago. "Fuckin' junkies," he continued placidly. "It's a damn shame what's happening to this country."
The Mexican guy grunted. One of the other bikers, a fellow with fiery red hair and crazy eyes, was nervously scanning the parking lot. I looked out the window. In the circle of light I could just make out the forms of several fallen bodies. They weren't moving.
"Now what?" I asked.
"Now we wait," said the boss. "Are there any other doors in this place?"
"Yeah, in the back." I pointed to indicate.
"Genie, go block it off."
"Arright," said the dreadlocked guy. He thumped Mirror Shades on the back. "C'mon, Wild Billy." How the hell did they come up with these names?
"You're the bartender, right?" said the Mexican guy, taking a seat at the bar. "Where's your hospitality?"
"If you guys think you're getting any drinks from me," I told him, "you're wildly mistaken."
He glowered at me. "You've got some attitude, maricón…"
"You just killed people outside my place of employment! How the hell am I going to explain this?"
"Not my problem. Get me a beer."
I put my hands on the counter and leaned towards him. "Get it yourself, asshole."
I was interrupted by a thwack. A razor-sharp hunting knife was embedded in the counter, right between the second and third fingers of my left hand. My heart stopped for a beat and then started up again at a too-slow pace. I stared at the grey-haired guy. He pulled his knife out of the wood, leaned against the counter next to his friend and flashed me a grin, flipping the blade between his fingers.
"In general, you should probably do what we say," he informed me, sounding quite friendly. "It's better for your health."
Valentine moaned. She was still huddled under the counter, white as a sheet, like she was afraid to move. He leaned over to get a better look at her.
"Don't worry, baby," he said. "We'll take good care of you."
ʘ
So now I found myself playing maitre d' to a posse of felons. All part of the job. Apparently, not even multiple homicide was enough to put these men off their drink. I found out that the boss was known as the Thief King to his enemies (a wide group that included rivals, law enforcement, and the greater part of the American public) – while everyone else called him Akefia. As far as I could tell, 'everyone else' meant the guys in his gang, and (I assumed) his parents, maybe.
He kept an eye on the bodies outside, waiting for the remaining survivors to make an appearance. He seemed to be pretty sure they were still out there somewhere.
"Hey, Akefia," I said. "If you want, I can always, uh, call the cops or somebody. Make sure they're gone."
"You're joking, right?"
Oh well, it was worth a try, anyway.
By that point, Valentine's psychic state was so frayed that (as she put it) her only choice was to keep drinking. Between her and the bikers, I stood a good chance of running through my entire stock by morning. After a few minutes though, she seemed to be feeling better, and actually started to get chatty.
"So," she said, indicating the bodies, "who the hell were those guys anyway?" Joey shot her a nervous glance; he was wishing she would keep quiet but was too on-edge to say anything.
"No idea," said Akefia. "All I know is they came out of some methadone clinic in Lincoln Park. Angel dust freaks, maybe. You can put a dozen bullets in 'em and they still don't go down. They got their hands on one of my guys, started tearing him apart right on the spot."
I gulped. "You mean…literally?"
"No, it was a figure of speech." He rolled his eyes and paused to light a cigarette. "Yes, literally. Had to leave him behind."
Valentine shuddered. "I'm so sorry." Her eyes were huge.
Akefia shrugged and blew out smoke. "I won't miss him."
"He was a narc," explained the red-haired guy, helpfully. He was (aptly) known as Rusty, although it was impossible to tell if this was a reference to his hair color or to something else.
The Mexican guy scowled. "I spit on his grave." He had introduced himself as Goyo the Rat – a rather unappealing handle I suspected was nonetheless self-endowed. Goyo proceeded to illustrate this statement by viciously spitting on my floor. I was past caring.
Akefia went on to explain that they'd run into more of these fiends on the road, so they'd retreated to the nearest building – which just happened to be my bar – in order to better plan their takedown. Apparently it had become a personal vendetta somewhere along the way. Bikers came through the bar pretty regularly – it wasn't far from the Mexican border, which made for heavy smuggler traffic – but no matter how many I met, I would never be able to understand the way they thought. Somebody should do a study on the biker mentality, if there isn't one already – the last stronghold of blowhard machismo in the developed world. I would have just called the cops and gone home to bed, but here they were, strung out in the middle of the night, engaged in some kind of preternatural Old-West-style showdown with violent junkies. I supposed there was some kind of twisted honor in the concept, if you thought about it hard enough, but it just wasn't my way of doing things.
Akefia had suddenly stopped talking. He was staring out of the window, tension in his jawline. I followed his gaze and saw why – the bodies were gone. They'd been there a minute before, quite obviously there – and now they had vanished, all five of them.
"They're still out there," Genie growled. Akefia got up and went to the window.
"No trace of the bodies," he ascertained. "We might have to - "
He was interrupted by something flinging itself at the window in front of him. Valentine screamed. Goyo the Rat swore and made the sign of the cross.
A sheen of sweat had broken out on Joey's face. "What the hell is that?" he asked.
What it was was obvious – it was a man. Or at least, it had been a man at some point. Its clothes – baggy jeans and an oversized Lakers jersey – were ragged and bloody, and the man's blue-tinged face was totally devoid of expression. His mouth hung slack, and the pupils of his unfocused eyes were hugely dilated. He was hurling himself at the window over and over again, trying to get at Akefia, leaving stains of blood on the wet glass. But that wasn't the reason for the creeping horror slowly trickling up my spine. There was a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, and the exit wound at the back had taken out a good chunk of his skull.
"I don't believe it," Akefia said, sounding dumbfounded. "I already killed this asshole."