Killercon

by William Ollie

  “That’s fucked up, Larry.”

  “God works in mysterious ways, brother. We inherited a bunch of money. A few years later I used some of mine to build a do-it-yourself carwash, and it just grew from there. Now I’ve got six of ‘em and a couple of guys to run them for me, and I do whatever the hell I want… like shoot a few games of pool in the middle of the afternoon.”

  God, Bryan thought, as Larry pulled up in front of the Greyhound Bus Station, did not barbecue your parents.

  Bryan followed Larry to a steep flight of stairs angling down into a dimly lit pool hall. Fast Eddie’s Billiards, a throwback to the betting parlors of the sixties, sat beneath the bus station, an ancient burial ground of antique tables and outdated wooden booths. Bryan hadn’t even known it was there. Long, rectangular light fixtures of ornamental glass hung from the ceiling, over pool tables with felt surfaces, most standing idle on a checkerboard floor of dingy green-and-white tiles. Cue sticks in wooden racks lined walls so grimy and tobacco-stained you’d have to scrape a knife across them to tell what color the paint actually was. A man stood behind the bar at the far side of the room, in front of a large mirror with a Budweiser logo printed in red letters along its top, whose smoky-glass surface revealed a line of cheap wooden stools running along the bar’s front.

  “Cool, huh?” Larry said.

  “I’ll say.”

  “C’mon, let’s get some balls.”

  “I’ve already got balls, two of ‘em.”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha,” Larry deadpanned, and then led Bryan across the room to the bar, past three rough-looking characters and a Goth chick hovering around a pool table. A fourth man leaned over, positioning his stick behind the cue ball. He had long, greasy black hair, and like his three male companions, wore a faded denim jacket. Twin serpent tattoos with forked tongues decorated his forearms. The jacket, cut off at the sleeves, had The Devil’s Own emblazoned on its back in blood-red lettering.

  Bryan thought the guy would look good in one of his books.

  “How about some balls, Frankie Boy?” Larry said to the bartender. Tall and well-muscled, short red hair buzzed into a flat-top, he looked like a weary brawler after a long night of Toughman fights. When he smiled, Bryan saw that he was missing a tooth.

  “Got plenty of balls,” Frankie said, and then reached beneath the bar and sat a square tray of billiard balls on the counter.

  “Couple of Rolling Rocks, too,” Larry said.

  A moment later, Frankie exchanged two beers for a five-dollar bill. “Three fifty,” he said, and Larry told him to keep the change.

  They took a table near the stairwell and selected their cues. While Larry racked the balls, Bryan yanked a thin chain that dangled from the glass fixture, flooding the table with stark, white light.

  With the exuberance of someone accustomed to the bells and whistles and screaming kids of well-lit family style recreation halls, Bryan said, “Look at this place!”

  “No shit. I try to make it by a couple of times a week, more when I can.”

  “Man, everything is so cool, the tables, the atmosphere, the craggy-faced bartender. What is he, a fighter or something?”

  Larry took a swig of beer, smiled and said, “Frankie Boy Murphy. Used to be a boxer, won a couple of state titles back in the day. Turned pro and got the shit kicked out of him. He’s been down here ever since. Cool guy, though.”

  He took another swig of beer, and rolled the cue ball down to Bryan. “Break?”

  “You go ahead.”

  “Play for beers?”

  “Cool.”

  “Cool,” Larry said.

  Bryan took a long drink and Larry took another swig, and then Larry walked the length of the table, leaned over, drew back his cue and slammed it into the cue ball, scattering solids and stripes around the green felt surface, the eight ball separating from the pack and spinning its way to a halt at the edge of a side pocket.

  “No fucking way,” Bryan said, as a yellow billiard ball completed its three-rail-journey around the table, touched the eight ball and dropped it into the webbed pocket.

  “Way, Dude. Believe it,” Larry said. “I’m a fucking winner.” He tipped back his beer, took a long drink, and then finished the bottle off. “Go get us another and I’ll rack the balls.”

  On his way to the bar, Bryan passed by the Goth chick, who smiled at him as if trying to catch his eye. Bryan looked the other way and kept going. On his way back, he didn’t even glance her way, just kept his eyes on the floor until he was well beyond her and her biker companions.

  When he handed Larry his beer, Larry took a drink and set the bottle on the wooden edge of the pool table. Then, stick in hand, he broke the next set of balls.

  Nothing went in, so Bryan grabbed his cue and leaned over the table, and then promptly sank the one-ball. As he positioned himself for the next shot, Larry said, “Tell me about this horror convention.”

  “What, Horrorcon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s a blast, Dude.” Bryan smiled, because he hardly ever said Dude, and thought that a little bit of Larry might be rubbing off on him. “Bunch of writers hanging out, smoking and drinking and partying.”

  “You have to be a writer to attend?”

  Bryan stroked a solid-colored ball into the side pocket. “Nah, it’s for everybody. Writers, publishers, fans—anybody who shows up.”

  “Chicks?”

  “Always, and plenty of ‘em. There’s panel discussions, book signings and lectures.”

  “Sounds kind of nerdy.”

  Bryan shrugged his shoulders. “Actually, it can get pretty wild, usually does get pretty wild. Especially late at night when the parties get to rocking.”

  “So I could go if I wanted to?”

  “You?” Bryan picked up his beer and took drink. “You want to go?”

  “Why not? It sounds like fun, and I like to have a good time.”

  “Well, yeah, you could go. Why not?” Bryan set the beer back on the side of the table, bent over and banked another ball into a pocket.

  “Hey,” Larry said. “You’re pretty good at this.”

  “I have my moments.”

  “The fuck?”

  Bryan looked up. “What?”

  “That chick, Dude. She’s staring a hole right through you.”

  “Yeah, right,” Bryan said, and then glanced in her direction. She smiled at him and he looked down at the table, focusing his attention back on the cue ball.

  “She wants you, Dude.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Oh, fuck. Here she comes!”

  “What?” Bryan looked across the room. She was walking toward them, smiling.

  “She’s kind of cute.”

  “I’m married.”

  “I’m not.”

  She wore a black leather jacket over a dark velvet shirt, and tight black leather pants. She had long, silky black hair, and hazel eyes that sparkled beneath a thick layer of black eye shadow. Glossed, blood-red lips stood in stark contrast to her pale-white face. A silver crucifix with a death’s head emblem in place of Jesus dangled between the milky-white curve of her breasts—which, Bryan noted, were quite nice-looking. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, probably a lot younger.

  A tattooed thug watched her cross the floor, and Bryan wondered what the hell they were about to get themselves into.

  “I know you,” she said, still smiling when she reached them.

  “Who, me?”

  “No,” she said, and nodded at Bryan. “Him. I recognized the t-shirt, and finally put two and two together. You’re Bryan Kenney. I read your book a couple of weeks ago—Blood Bath—what a wild ride that was.”

  “Well, thanks for that.” Larry’s right: she is cute. “Glad you liked it.”

  “When’s your next one coming out?”

  “Probably next summer.”

  “Can I get an autograph?”

  Bryan laughed. “Sure,” he said.

  Larry
stood next to him, smiling. Probably trying to figure out a way to join in.

  “You got a pen, something for me to sign? A book, maybe?”

  “Be right back,” she said, and then turned and half-ran-half-skipped across the room.

  “You lucky bastard,” Larry said.

  “I’m married, Larry.”

  “What, you’re not gonna tap that?”

  “Have you ever seen my wife?”

  Larry took another drink of beer. “Did you happen to notice she wasn’t wearing a bra?”

  “Jesus.”

  “That her erect nipples were about to push their way through that silky little blouse of hers?”

  “Oh, fuck. Look at that.” She had gone to the bar and talked to Frankie Boy for a moment. He handed her something—a pen, Bryan figured—and she started back toward her rowdy-looking friends. When she reached them, Tattoo-Man grabbed a fistful of her leather jacket. Lips curled back in a snarl, she scowled, tugging her way loose and hurrying toward Bryan and Larry.

  Once back at the table, she said, “Okay”, handing Bryan a black magic marker as she shrugged out of the leather jacket—

  “What do you want me to sign?”

  —and lifted up her shirt, Larry gasping as her tight breasts swayed back and forth in front of them, her nipples erect as pencil erasers.

  “This!” she said, and stepped closer to Bryan.

  Bryan couldn’t believe it. Once, at a horror convention in Atlanta, he had seen Brian Keene sign a breast, but he never dreamed he’d get to.

  “Can I sign the other one?” Larry asked her.

  “No.”

  “Hold it for you?”

  “Get real, pal!”

  Bryan uncapped the marker and scrawled Best wishes, Bryan Kenney on her right breast.

  “Dot the eyeee!” she called out in a teasing, singsong voice.

  “Man, oh, man,” Larry said, as Bryan pressed the black-felt tip against her nipple. Neither of them noticed The Devil’s Own laughing hysterically at their table, and they sure hadn’t noticed one of them storming across the floor in their direction.

  “Thanks,” she said, and then, lowering her shirt, she picked up her jacket and put it back on.

  “Thank you, er…” Larry said.

  “Brianna… Bree for short.”

  “Yeah,” Bryan said, “thanks for—”

  “Hey, goddamnit!”

  Bryan looked past Bree to the end of their table, surprised to see Bree’s glowering companion, even though he probably shouldn’t have been. Definitely shouldn’t have been. He was signing her friggin’ tit, for chrissakes!

  “The fuck’s wrong with you?” he said when he reached Bree’s side.

  “You don’t own me, Snake!”

  “Chill out, Dude,” Larry said. “Lemme buy you a beer.”

  “Fuck you, dipshit!” To Bryan, he said, “Like signing tits, do ya!”

  “Is that a trick question?” Larry again.

  Snake grabbed Bryan around his throat, seething now. “How’dya like this, bitch!”

  “Goddamnit, Snake,” Bree said.

  “Hey!” Frankie Boy yelled from behind the bar. “Take that shit outside!”

  Snake’s hand dipped into his front pants pocket, and came up clutching a knife—a sweeping shake and a blade popped out, Bryan’s eyes growing wide as Bree yelled, “Snake!” and Larry swung his cue.

  Bryan wasn’t sure what snapped when it struck—the stick or Snake’s face—but something sure as hell snapped.

  Snake crumpled to the ground as the knife bounced off the felt surface of the table and a pistol skittered across the green and white tiled floor. He looked up and Larry kicked him in the face.

  The Devil’s Own started toward them, and Larry—who had grabbed Bryan by his faded Sabbath t-shirt—said, “Run, motherfucker!”

  Chapter Eight

  They hauled ass across the floor. Bryan, chasing Larry up the stairs toward a small patch of daylight at the top, wondered if Snake was okay, or if Larry might have done some permanent damage. He was sure he’d heard something snap. He kicked him right in the face! And what about Larry? He smiled when he yelled ‘run’ like he was having the time of his life.

  “You son of a bitch!” came a yell from behind him. “I’m gonna cut your fuckin’ balls off!” And then more screaming and footfalls on concrete.

  Bryan didn’t wonder about much at all after that. His legs pumped as a loud report thundered up the hollow stairwell, and something whizzed by his ear, punching a hole through the Fast Eddie’s sign hanging at the mouth of the entrance, raining plastic shards down on Larry, who’d just run beneath it.

  Bryan landed on the top step and dove headlong onto the ground, scraping his knees against the sidewalk as Bree landed beside him.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “Away from them!” she said as they scrambled up and took off for the Camaro, where they found Larry in the driver’s seat, racing the engine.

  “Nice Z!” Bree called out over the roaring motor.

  “Thanks!” Larry said.

  Bryan folded the seat forward and Bree jumped in the back.

  “Where’re the bikes?” Larry said.

  “What bikes?”

  “Motorcycles. I wanta run the motherfuckers over.”

  “Those dipshits don’t have bikes.”

  Snake and his three companions appeared on the sidewalk, beneath the ruined sign, eyes sweeping the parking lot.

  “I thought they were the devil’s own.” Larry backed up, shifted gears and stomped on the gas, tires screaming against the pavement as he raced through the parking lot, and saw in his rearview mirror The Devil’s Own running down the sidewalk.

  One hand on the driver’s headrest, the other on Bryan’s seat, Bree leaned forward and put her face between theirs. “Who, them? They’re just a buncha wannabes.”

  Larry shot past a parked bus and shifted gears. Fishtailing sideways, he blasted onto the street, leaving a six-foot patch of burnt rubber in his wake.

  “What are you doing with them?” Bryan asked her.

  “They had coke.” Bree shrugged. “And a cool friggin’ race car.”

  Larry pulled up to a line of cars stopped at a red light, fished the baggy from his pocket. “Check this out!” he said, and tossed it to Bree, who caught it and said, “Cool!”

  Great! thought Bryan.

  “Oh, shit!”

  “What?” Bryan said. “What?”

  And then turned to see a black G.T.O. screeching sideways out of the bus station, the classic car, with its chrome bumper and a shiny chrome grill that looked like shark’s teeth, racing straight for them, the Outlaws Green Grass and High Times blaring from the Z-car’s radio as Larry edged out into the oncoming lane, hurrying past the line of stopped cars and turning right in front of them. “Piece’a cake, Dude,” he said, glancing at Bryan as something exploded, and Bryan looked up at the rearview mirror to see the Goat fishtailing through the intersection in front of two wrecked pickup trucks, one of which was still screeching sideways toward the plate glass window of a convenience store.

  “Fuck!” he said, as the Goat weaved in and out of traffic behind them.

  Bree, firing up a joint, said, “You guys got a gun?”

  “What!” Bryan shouted, while Larry said, “No.”

  “Too bad,” she said, as the G.T.O. drew closer and closer.

  Larry took a right and a left, raced several more blocks and hung another right onto a four-lane highway. The rear window exploded, its shattering glass pelting Bree, covering the back seat and floorboard beneath her.

  “Holy fuck!” Bree shouted, and then ducked as far down as she could, while Bryan grabbed the dashboard in a white-knuckled-death-grip and Larry swerved right, jamming pedal-to-metal, wild Southern guitar licks blasting as he raced two-wheels-on-pavement/two-on-grass the wrong way up an I-77 exit ramp.

  “Aw, fuck,” Larry said, fishtailing, blowing his horn and dodging cars. And
then, with an almost begrudging tone of admiration, “Here they come!”

  Another shot rang out, punching a hole through the windshield of the car next to and facing Bryan, which took a sharp left and turned up on its side, flipping and sliding upside down the grassy embankment.

  I’m going to die, thought Bryan. All I had to do was get up and change a friggin’ flat and go merrily down to that warehouse. And now I’m going to fucking die!

  The traffic at the top of the ramp was light, and Larry slowed just enough to take a careening right hand turn and still keep all four wheels on the road. Then he was laughing and racing down the highway.

  Bryan, hands still clutching the dash, said, “Dude, this ain’t funny.”

  Bree, who had straightened back up, took another hit off the joint and passed it to Larry, who laughed and sucked in a lungful. He tried to hand it off to Bryan, but Bryan waved it away.

  “Relax, Dude, they can’t catch us now.”

  “Of course not. They’re just driving a fucking RACE CAR!”

  Larry snickered, took another hit and passed the reefer to Bree, looked in the mirror, and said, “Oh, shit.”

  The smile disappeared, because even though they were barreling down an open stretch of highway away from the city at a hundred and ten miles an hour, the G.T.O. was gaining ground fast.

  And then it was on them; first, nudging their rear bumper, then those dented chrome shark’s teeth were edging up to the passenger door, Bryan looking over at the big burley driver, who grinned and pulled down his lower lip, showing Bryan the Fuck You! tattoo etched across it.

  Larry floored the pedal, but the Goat kept pace. “Who’s that big bastard?”

  “Bear.”

  “Snake, Bear!” he shouted. “Where’d you find these guys, the zoo?”

  The Goat pulled alongside them and Snake leaned out the rear-side window, pointing the pistol at Bryan as Larry steered toward them and the G.T.O. swerved, tossing Snake sideways into the car. Then he was back, leaning through the window and firing three quick blasts into the Z-car’s side, one of which slammed into Bryan’s headrest.