Sledgehammer

After being with Lily for 8 years, married for 7 and trying for a family for 6, Frank Buffay couldn't believe that this was what it had all amounted to: sitting alone in a sleazy motel room with a single suitcase at 1 am in the morning, staring at his wedding ring. He had to get out of there. He needed a drink, a talk, something.

His motel was next door to a tired old nightclub that smelt of stale urine and dried beer. A little watering hole called Sledgehammer. It would do just fine. Walking in, he ordered a bourbon. Knocking it back, he mulled over the end of his marriage, letting the pounding new sounds of Purple Haze by Jimi Hendrix wash over him.

From across the crowded sweaty room and dancing white strobe lights, Frank saw a tall beautiful blonde woman walk towards him. He hastily removed his wedding ring, slipping it into his pocket. He knew he was doing wrong, but the bourbon and loneliness was clouding his judgement.

"You new here? Haven't seen you around this place before," the blonde said, leaning against the bar.

"Uh yeah, I uh, I don't really go out to these kinds of places, not usually, not since I was-" Frank stopped himself just in time, before the word single slipped out of his mouth.

"Right, well, I know every face at this joint cuz I bartend here, three nights a week. It's my day off, so tonight, I'm a customer."

"Umm yes, yes, I can see why you'd work here, this place it quite enjoyable," Frank said awkwardly.

"Yeah well, it's near where I live, the music's loud, the drinks are cheap, I get staff discounts, what more could I ask for?" the woman said languidly.

"Uh huh… true, the music is loud in here… but loud music is great, especially when the beat is nice," Frank cringed at the nonsensical words coming out of his mouth.

The blonde shook her head smiling, "God, you don't get out much, huh?"

Frank laughed uncomfortably, "No, I guess not, I'm not usually a um party-boy. Usually it's quiet evenings at home... So uh, a-anyway, c-can I buy you a drink Miss… uh… right… I don't actually know your name," Frank stuttered.

"No you don't," the tall blonde concurred, enjoying Frank's discomfort.

"Right, well, first off, I-I'll s-start by introducing myself…" Frank mumbled, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. God, it had been so long since he had picked up a woman. "My name is-"

"I don't care for names," the woman interrupted slyly.

"Right, w-well, shall I buy you a drink, then? What would you like to have?" Frank asked.

"This," she replied, pulling the bourbon out of Frank's hand, and knocking it back. Slamming the glass on the bar, she grabbed Frank's hand, and pulled him into a small grubby bathroom stall. She slammed the flimsy door behind her. He didn't know her name, but she was blonde, busty, drunk, and very keen.

It was just what he needed, something to take his mind off his wife. Throwing caution and moralities to the wind, Frank locked lips with the woman. Hitching her red lycra skirt up, and pulling her leopard-print panties off, she threw her leg over his shoulder. And so, the strangers did their couples dalliance under the glow of a single flickering light bulb, against a cold tiled wall, laced with graffiti.

And in this stranger's womb, Phoebe and Ursula were conceived.