by Derek Slaton
SMOOTHEN SILKY: DEMON FIGHTING PIMP
By Derek Slaton
© 2018
CHAPTER ONE
The atmosphere inside the Guilty Growler was as enticing as a hobo orgy. As soon as Rose set foot inside, she was assaulted with crunchy power chords and the underlying musk of daily drunks that hadn’t showered in weeks. Boisterous bellowing permeated the crowd from a group of half drunk frat boys in pink polo shirts clustered around the end of the bar.
The walls were grungy with nicotine and spat beer, dented from years of punk rockers smashing around with abandon. The soles of Rose’s thigh high boots stuck to the floor as she circled the throng of sweaty rockers. She managed to move with grace despite this, and swung up onto a bar stool, careful to keep her flowing black dress from brushing against any spilled muck.
She lived a glamorous life.
When she crossed her legs and leaned forward to rest a delicate looking arm on the bar, her green eyes swept the room in a quick arc. One of the pink shirts leaned in, yelling to his friends about something over the music, and when he motioned to her, she sighed. Predictable little university kids with their fake swagger and unending bullshit.
The band screamed one last garbled line into their far too cranked microphones, and the frontman leapt into the crowd. The cacophony of notes ringing out died down, and the stage lights lowered, house lights brightening and breaking the anonymous spell of the dance floor.
Drunken dancers that had been slamming into each other hollered and stumbled over each other, eyes adjusting to the ambient light. Some stared awkwardly at their previous dance partners, unsure of whether or not they were still interested in spending more time together. Rose didn’t envy them.
“We don’t get too many women like you in here,” the bartender said as he stepped in front of her, taking advantage of the fresh quiet to address this new customer. He took in her plump lips and flawless skin leading down a slender neck to a prominent collarbone and the swell of luscious cleavage beneath.
The bartender was middle aged and may have been handsome once, but at this point he looked like he’d around the block too many times. He was rough around the edges, and not in the way that Rose usually found intriguing or endearing.
He seemed like he was the perfect embodiment of the Guilty Growler. What kind of name was that for a bar, anyway? It made her envision a very sad looking pussy.
“What can I say?” She shrugged, sweeping her waterfall of crimson curls over her shoulder. “I like the atmosphere.”
“Hey, baby, how you doin’?” It was the Pink Shirt that had been motioning to her moments ago, and she rolled her eyes.
“Well, at least I did like the atmosphere,” she said to the bartender, and his lips curled into a wry smile. The exchange went right over Frat Boy’s head. She wasn’t surprised. It was amazing that these dolts made it into post secondary with their empty heads. They sure didn’t have any street smarts in her experience.
“Hey buddy, get my new girl here whatever she wants.” He didn’t take his eyes off of Rose’s blush pink lipstick as he spoke, pulling a twenty dollar bill out of an obscenely fat wallet.
“I’ll take a double scotch on the rocks,” she said, eyeing Frat Boy’s wallet as he made a show of how difficult it was to fold it back up. “And the change,” she added, and the bartender stifled a chuckle. He liked her sass, and the way she was playing this kid. These fraternity idiots were just as out of place as this chick. He didn’t normally attract their type of crowd, and wondered if they’d headed out here on a dare. Kids these days still dared each other to do shit, right?
“Coming right up, ma’am,” the bartender said, and turned to pluck the bottle of Scotch from the wall behind him.
“So, what’s up, baby?” Frat Boy tried to turn up the charm, leaning in a bit with a leer that made Rose’s skin crawl. “I’m Moses. You come here often?” His blue eyes were slightly hooded, and he eyed her like he was sizing her up for purchase. In a way, he was. That’s what guys in bars did.
She wondered briefly if this guy had ever successfully picked up a woman in his miserable little life. The bartender slid a surprisingly clean glass full of amber liquid across the bar with a smattering of bills behind it.
“First off, my name is Rose, not baby,” she said, voice level, and lifted her drink in her perfectly manicured hand. “Second off,” she began, and then shot back the drink in an expert display of opening her throat. She slammed the empty glass back down on the counter and smacked her painted lips together in disappointment. “If he keeps pouring drinks like that then no, I won’t be coming here often.”
The bartender huffed as she folded up the extra bills and slid them into the top of her dress. She spun the stool so she was facing away from the bar, watching the band packing up their instruments. They’d been good, at least for a punk band whose job was to just make as much noise as possible. If she were here for pleasure, she’d have been shaking the drummer’s sweaty hand right about then. He’d been throttling those drums like his life depended on it, and moving one’s entire body in such a fast rhythm was beyond her.
Moses snapped his fingers to catch the attention of the bartender.
“Yo dude, get your ass over here,” he said pompously, and the older man leaned towards him with his lips pursed. “You’re going to pour her the strongest drink you got, cause I plan on getting me some of that tonight. You got it?” The pink clad boy motioned to Rose, and the bartender raised his eyebrows, abashed. “I said, you got it?” Moses clenched his fist for effect, and the bartender rolled his eyes.
“Yes sir, I’ll take care of it,” he replied, trying to keep his professionalism in check. He didn’t want any trouble with these university kids, but this woman had insulted him and his drinks. If she wanted to stoop to screwing a pack of frat boys then that was her prerogative. He swallowed his sense of moral conduct and started pouring some very old--and not terribly legal--German moonshine into a glass.
There was a plonk on the wooden bar and Rose glanced back at the new drink the bartender had procured for her. It looked like cloudy water and she raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, catching a whiff of fermented fruit and maybe honey. That definitely was not a regular drink for a fine upscale establishment.
“Five dollars, please, ma’am,” the bartender informed her, and her mouth curled down into a pensive frown. She hadn’t ordered the damn thing, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to pay for this swill, whatever it was.
She turned a manipulatively softening gaze on Moses, green orbs big and round and oh so inviting. He opened his mouth but no sound came out, and he reached blindly to grasp the bills that had been sitting by her previous drink. When he remembered that she’d shoved them in her bra, he almost scowled, but then caught her fuck-me eyes again.
“Fine,” he groaned, and produced his ridiculous wallet once more.
“Thank you,” she batted her eyelashes at him as he paid for the drink.
“Moses, my name’s Moses,” he blurted, wanting to hear his name come out from between those squishy cocksucking lips.
“I don’t care, sweetie.” A ghost of a smile crossed her face and she turned back to the crowd, fresh drink in hand, to watch the patrons fully disperse. She wasn’t surprised that none of them were sticking around for last call based on the quality of the drinks in this dive.
Even the rest of Moses’ frat friends strolled out the door, not even looking back to see what their buddy was doing. They probably assumed that he was going to pick Rose up, and didn’t want to get in the way. Maybe the plan was for him to be by himself, oh so harmless and inviting, to get her to head on over to the frat house where--surprise!--there are four more dudes to fuck.
Not tonight, bucko, Rose
thought bitterly.
Moses took a deep breath and leaned in again, going in for another try. “Well, I’ll give you a reason to care,” he purred, lowering his voice into what he thought was a sexy husk. “Why don’t we go back to my place and I’ll part your red sea?”
The red haired woman in the black strapless dress froze, and then very slowly turned her head to look at him. He was smirking at her with false bravado, clearly nervous about how she was going to respond.
She tried to keep a straight face, she really did.
But she couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling up from inside her. It came in massive waves, and she had to support herself on the bar to keep from spilling her drink as she nearly doubled over. She gasped for breath, great heaving guffaws sucking the life out of her lungs, and the more she tried to stop, the worse it got. She squeaked out unintelligible words as she cackled, trying to say something, anything to make it stop. Her gut ached.
Moses frowned, almost pouted. The bartender’s head dropped into his hands, and he stifled his own laughter, making a mental note to add this kid to his list of losers that couldn’t pick up women. He’d be a proverbial cash cow, buying drinks for chicks that would never go home with him.
“Seriously,” Rose finally managed to wheeze the word. “Does that line ever work?” She slammed a fist down on the bar to accentuate another fit of giggles. “Part my red sea?” She set her drink down to avoid dumping it all over herself, though she was sure some had already sloshed onto the floor in her mirth. “I’m… I don’t even know what to do with that. I’m speechless.”
Moses shoved off of the bar stool with a snarl, and stormed out of the building, slamming the front door behind him. Rose leaned her head on her elbow, laughs subsiding to little hiccups as she turned her amused eyes on the bartender.
“As you can see, we get some really sad individuals in this place,” he spread his hands for effect.
“Yeah, I can see that.” She shook her head and downed the drink, nearly spitting it back up as she giggled again. “Is it too late to get one more?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said, and glanced at the clock. It was past last call. She shrugged in understanding, looking apologetic for asking, but he put up a hand. “However,” he stated, scooping up the scotch bottle once more. “After seeing what you had to go through, I think I can make an exception.” He smiled as he poured the drink, genuinely feeling that this woman deserved the extra drink.
However insulting she’d been at the beginning, she’d dealt with that university kid with sass and style. The bartender couldn’t help but respect her for having such a thick skin.
The door burst open just as he was sliding the glass across the bar, and Rose swiveled to see Moses return. He was flanked by the four nearly identical clones of him, pink shirts and all. Their eyes were maniacal with rowdy glee, and she pursed her lips, a small sigh escaping her lips.
They did not look like they wanted to play nice.
CHAPTER TWO
“Okay fellas, you all had your shot with the ladies, but we’re closed,” the bartender said in a jovial but firm tone. He didn’t like the look of these assholes, especially busting back in here after the show between Rose and Moses. He didn’t think that him returning with his pack of puppies was a good sign, and hoped he could defuse this situation. “Go on home and sleep it off.”
The five-pack ignored the nervous looking man and stalked towards Rose like predators circling prey.
“Don’t worry, I deal with this all the time,” she threw a wink back at the bartender to calm him down, but also as a display of relaxed dominance to the frat boys. She wanted them to know that they weren’t rattling her cage one bit with their attempt at intimidation.
“Is this the bitch?” One of the pink shirts spat, and she leaned back on her elbows, crossing her mile long legs casually.
“Yeah, that’s her,” Moses confirmed. “Let’s teach her a lesson. Nobody laughs at Moses.”
“That’s enough, boys,” the bartender cut in, despite Rose’s insistence that she could handle herself. “Leave now, or I’ll call the cops.” He wasn’t about to let five guys at this one woman, no matter how chill she was about the whole situation.
“You shut the fuck up,” Moses growled, a deep guttural noise that made the bartender’s blood run icy cold. The frat boy’s wide eyes had an eerie glint to them, and man behind the counter could swear that his skin was pulsing. “This is between me and the bitch,” Moses continued, his voice having dropped two octaves.
Rose hopped down off of the bar stool as if heading off to catch a ride home, and the pink clad guy’s hand shot out lightning fast to grasp her bicep.
“You just fucked up bad, frat dick.” She narrowed her eyes and slipped her hand instantly down into her boot, producing a retractable police baton.
Steel slinked out and expertly hit flesh with a loud smack. Moses let go of her arm to grasp his cheek in shock. That reaction earned him two more hits, leaving a matching welt on the other side of his face and a far more painful strike to his twig and berries.
Rose reeled forward with her pointed toed boot and slammed it into his stomach, knocking the wind right out of him. She wound her fingers into his hair and jerked him to the floor, stomping on his ribs with a grunt.
His four buddies were positively vibrating with excitement, their eyes emanating that same shiny glow of their comrade. One of them lunged forward, and Rose dodged out of reach, vaulting up onto the bar.
The bartender dropped to the floor like a stone, seeking refuge under the counter. Rose ran down the length of the bar, sliding off of the end to dart into the next room. She needed to funnel them somehow, take them one at a time.
Unfortunately, they knew better than to pop into the room in a perfect line, and bustled in all together. Moses parted them like the red sea, and the image made Rose snicker at his awful pick up line once again.
“You little bitch,” he snarled, his lips curling back to reveal double rows of razor sharp teeth. “I’m gonna take your soul for that.”
The frat boys all started to glow together, their skin darkening and hardening into scaly flesh. Their teeth grew longer, their eyes redder, their noses upturned into little buttons on their faces. They looked more like hairless scaly pugs, and Rose couldn’t help but grin at the image.
She widened her stance, preparing to defend herself as best she could against the onslaught of frat pug demons.
“Prepare to die.” Moses’ voice was unrecognizable. Rose opened her mouth to make a snarky comment regarding his cliched speech, but a sharp whistle cut through the empty bar beyond the door.
The lights from the dance floor were bright enough that the fluffy humanoid silhouette remained in shadow as his heels clicked along the floor.
“Now I know ya’ll ain’t thinkin’ of hurtin’ that pretty little thang.” His soft drawl was sly and intimidating all at once as he reached the doorframe. When the light from the small room illuminated a man in a long impeccably white suede coat, it was as if all the air went out of the room.
He grinned and reached beneath the long garment, producing a shiny 9-iron. He set it in front of him with a flourish, head down on the floor, as if it were a cane.
“Who the fuck are you?” Moses blurted, incredulous. This guy looked like he’d just walked out of a costume store, and to waltz on up in here and interrupt their important business?
“Silky,” the pimp said, voice matching his name, “Smoothen Silky.”
“Well, Silky,” Moses addressed him with a sneer, “you picked the wrong whore to stick up for. Looks like we’re gonna have to take your soul too.” He shoved one of his buddies in the shoulder, and the pink clad demon lunged forward, a flurry of clawed fists.
Silky planted his feet and easily dodged each punch, the demon getting more and more frustrated and sloppy as his lashes continued to miss. Finally the pimp flicked the golf club upwards, catching the frat boy in the chin. The demon staggered back, and the
re was a little shink as a blade slipped out of the end of the club.
Silky jabbed forward, and embedded the blade right into the frat demon’s crotch, eliciting a piercing shriek that had the rest of his buddies covering their scaly ears.
Rose leaned against the back wall, crossing her arms to watch the action. Another frat boy leapt forward, and Silky flipped the 9-iron with expert grace, swinging it in a quick arc that decapitated his attacker like butter.
Moses screamed in rage, shoving his other two packmates forward as Silky did a backflip out onto the dance floor. His fur coat billowed in a fluttering arc and when he landed in a power stance, somehow not dislodging the majestic hat from atop his head.
He held the club out to the side and jutted his free hand forward, flipping it palm up and motioned for the demons to come hither.
The first one to get close led with his fist, and Silky grasped him at the tricep, slicing up with the bladed club. The demon squealed like a pig as the pimp tore his arm clean off, tossing it into the air like a graduation cap.
