Necromance

by Armand Rosamilia

  He nodded with a big goofy grin on his face. His long hair flopped around and he kept pushing it back behind his ears.

  I went to town without another sound. I always hated hearing the stories from dudes about chicks who hemmed and hawed or tried to be coy about it. Just have sex and be done with it already. Then I could get back inside and kill a Fiend or three. Maybe all five if I was lucky but I didn't like the odds. I knew they had made me but hoped they didn't realize I was actually after one of them and they didn't see me as a threat with so many Fiends together.

  His girlfriend either wasn't very good, she hadn't done him in a long time, or I was just much better. I decided the latter answer made the most sense for me and my ego. He was done, with a shudder, within two minutes. I made sure there wasn't a mess because I knew, unless I got lucky, I'd be sleeping in the backseat again tonight. I didn't want to fall asleep on anything.

  "My turn," I said and slipped my jeans down, exposing my thighs and turning so he could see my ass in the thong. He pulled me closer to him and tried to cuddle or kiss me or some shit but I put him at arm's length. "No bullshit, just get to it so I can get off, dude."

  "Sure, yeah," he said but he didn't sound confident.

  I looked down to see his little friend was done. "Seriously? Is that all you got?"

  "Just give me a few minutes," he stammered. Suddenly, he wasn't the cool rock wannabe god anymore. He was the geek who'd been in band in high school and was brilliant in the chess club before trying his hand at Metal. It didn't take my paranormal skills to see where he was heading: nowhere and fast.

  "Forget it. I'll just go back inside and find someone else."

  "No, I swear I can do it."

  "Get out of my car," I said. I had no time to sit around and make small talk about his shitty life or my shitty life, while he tried unsuccessfully to will it ready.

  He was now begging me to let him stay and awkwardly tried to put his hand between my legs, so I grabbed him by the wrist and twisted until he actually started to cry. What a bitch. "Reach back with the hand I'm not going to break and open the car door. Now."

  "It's locked," he cried.

  "Hit the button and open it or I will break your thumb. Good luck playing guitar ever again."

  The door burst open and he slid off of the seat, struggling to get away from me. I let him go and he fell onto the sidewalk.

  "I'll see you inside. Give me a couple of minutes to get dressed," I said with the sweetest smile I could muster.

  * * * * *

  I had a problem. The Fiends in the band were now onstage (and I was hoping they'd play some Slayer) but they weren't the ones I was drawn to.

  The other problem? They kinda sucked. They were boring and safe and I really hated shit like this. The singer kept doing this street-thug rap thing, which is not Metal to me. When they got to the encore (and by then I'd made the rounds of the club and had more than a few free drinks passed my way from guys stupidly thinking I was going to hang out with them), I was about to give up on this night, regroup in my car and try to follow my mark tomorrow if I could still find the trail. It's not an exact science. Sometimes I get a strong feeling and can immediately pick him or her from out of the crowd, and, at other times, they could be standing next to me, buying the drinks all night and I only realize who it is when they're trying to kill me. Such is life.

  "Slayer," I yelled when they plugged back in and the crowd yelled, but I wasn't betting they'd do it and, at this point, I was hoping they didn't butcher a classic song anyway.

  "We're going to bring up a good friend of ours," the lead singer said as the spotlight hit him. "He's a local boy who's been hiding for far too long, but we managed to get him to come up and do one song with us."

  The crowd went wild, even though they had no idea who it was going to be. I was just hoping, since I was in Jacksonville, it wouldn't be Fred Durst. The world didn't need another sighting of him and his red ball cap.

  As soon as the guy, a light-skinned and handsome black dude, came out, the crowd surged forward and cheered.

  "This man needs no introduction," the singer said and handed him a second microphone. "But I'm gonna let you people shout it out and make him feel welcome again."

  The crowd began chanting 'DJ Diggie Duval' and I had no idea who this guy was; although, I knew the most important thing: he was my mark. DJ Diggie Duval gave a couple of quick waves and the band launched into a Linkin Park song. Seriously?

  If it wasn't for this new Fiend onstage, doing the lame rap parts to the lame song, I would have left. The idiotic crowd, drunk and just happy to be out of their cages, hopped up and down in time to the music and sang along. A weak mosh pit broke out and I felt sorry for all the little kids in it and hoped they all broke something.

  I knew the stress was getting to me, because even I'm not usually this negative and whiny like a bitch. I needed to take care of this guy and fast, but there was no way I was doing it with a thousand witnesses.

  Backstage was where I needed to be but I hadn't seen the limp dick guitarist since I came back in. He was either halfway home in his girlfriend's car, being yelled at for disappearing, or he was holed up backstage trying to play rock star. He seemed like he had enough ego to stick around and rub shoulders with real musicians, even these jokers.

  The band dove right from Linkin Park into "Angel of Death," which was impressive for the simple fact they did it. Not the execution, with DJ Diggie Duvall trying and failing to rap every other line in a tradeoff,because it was obvious he'd only heard the song once or twice and even then probably by accident. The crowd responded like they always do, like sheep, just happy to hear a familiar song even if it was being butchered. I was really starting to hate going to clubs.

  I decided to get backstage and find either a quiet corner or a hiding spot because once all these Fiends got off the stage, pumped up with adrenalin, they were going to find some quick victims and get out of town, if they could. I didn't want to be in line for one of them to try and take me down. I was hoping easy victims would be more appealing to them.

  "Where do you think you're going?" the beefy security guy said to me.

  "Backstage. I was there before." I pushed out my tits. "I'm sure you remember these. You were staring at them the last time, too."

  He put up a hand. "I can't let you go inside."

  I stepped forward and put my tit against his hand. He immediately started to sweat but didn't move away. "You want to touch them? See them?"

  Now he was looking around. I pushed against him and his hand locked onto my chest, his other hand coming up and following suit. He smiled.

  "Nice, right? And they're real."

  "I want to see them," he said.

  "Cool. Let's go inside. Is there a quiet spot we can go to?"

  He frowned. "I can't. I have to watch the door."

  "Come on, we both know how this works. You can call up another security guard to watch it for you. I'm sure all you guys are getting off and feeling nice tits tonight."

  "Give me a second," he said and pulled his walkie-talkie from his belt clip. "Vinnie, you there?"

  "Yeah, what?"

  "I need you to watch the back door. I… I gotta take a piss."

  Vinnie laughed over the static. "I hope she's hot."

  He turned to me and grinned. "Hell yeah."

  * * * * *

  I ended up servicing him and he was done way too soon, not one of my finer moments but I really needed to get backstage and in a good position, which I now was. He'd taken me to a side door behind a curtain, and once he'd finished with an apology and I pretended it was no big deal and it happened to a lot of guys, he awkwardly left and I stayed behind cover.

  It didn't take long for the area to fill up with hot chicks, hangers on dudes, the opening band and people who knew people who worked in the club.

  The band got off stage with DJ Diggie Duval and dropped onto dirty fading couches that had seen much wear over the years and were probably a
wet dream for CSI to test for DNA. I actually shouldn't knock it, considering, if the club asked me if I wanted to sleep on it instead of the backseat of my car, I'd say yes without a thought.

  The handler for the band was some guy who kept referring to himself in the third person, which I found absolutely annoying. His name was Frankie and he was bragging to some jailbait chick about him doing the Marilyn Manson tour last year. As if that meant anything, but she was hooked. Already he was fondling her under her miniskirt and I was actually hoping to see what color thong she was wearing. Hey, I can be curious.

  I knew I couldn't make my move with so many witnesses. I'm not a superhero or a cold-blooded killer. Sure, it would look cool to have me walk into a room with an Uzi blazing and my boobs bouncing in slow motion while paper flew through the air and bullets found their mark. But I needed to be as subtle as possible, and get close to this guy before he realized who I was and knew I knew who he was. In theory, it was quite easy. The reality was I was going to be in a world of shit when this Fiend and his buddies knew who was gunning for him. I had no beef with all of them; although, I knew at some point I'd have to deal with one or more. It's just the way it was.

  Frank, the douche-bag tour guy, was now rubbing two greasy fingers against the front of the chick's undies. It was a thong and they were red and she was excited. She didn't seem to mind everyone trying to act cool while she moaned softly. The dude leaned forward and kissed her neck and she reached down and squeezed his manhood through his jeans. Even though I had work to do, I still liked to see some public displays of raunchy affection. Be honest: who doesn't?

  Two of the band members/Fiends pulled up chairs next to the couch on either side and were grinning.

  "I get her next," the singer said.

  "And I want her at the same time," the bassist chimed in. "Frankie, let's take her out to the tour bus."

  Frankie was ignoring them as he got her to moan a little louder as he touched her. She closed her eyes and arched her back.

  The bassist reached in slowly and pulled her thong from between her legs. Eyes still closed, she either thought it was Frankie doing it or she just didn't care.

  "We need to get her out of here, Frankie," the singer said insistently. He put a hand on the tour manager's shoulder and squeezed. "It's not up for debate."

  From where I was standing, I thought Frankie was going to cry. He stopped touching her and stood up. "Come on, man… can't I have this one? I don't ask for much."

  "You know the rules. It's why you signed on for this gig," the bassist said. He looked around. "I need everyone to leave. Now."

  The other guys in the band knew what was coming because they got excited, ushering people from the back. The problem was they were tossing DJ Diggie Duval as well. Damn. I needed to keep tabs on him.

  "Are we alone?" the singer asked.

  She finally opened her eyes. "What's going on? I'm not doing another group of guys. No way."

  "Once we're done with you, I'm sure you'll wish we all just took turns with your shitty body," the drummer said.

  "Guys… I'm begging you," Frankie said.

  "This isn't up for discussion. You know the rules. Don't act like you're special. We get first choice of anyone in the club and we want her."

  "It's not fair," Frankie said and put his head down.

  They all started laughing. "Fair? Who said anything about fair? This isn't the Marilyn Manson tour, buddy." The singer lifted Frankie's face. "We're the real deal. Get her to the tour bus. Feel free to nail anything else in this shit-hole. You have ninety minutes before we leave."

  * * * * *

  When I was satisfied they were all gone and weren't coming back, I slipped out from behind the curtain. While I didn't relish the thought of the skank getting ripped apart by the Fiends, she really wasn't my problem. I'm not an asshole but I had a mission I needed to complete.

  I kept telling myself that, over and over in my head, as I walked out the backstage door into the empty club, looking for the exit, to find DJ Diggie Duval. Not only was I going to end his unholy life, but I was going to let him know how stupid his name was.

  The chick didn't matter to me.

  I walked out the front door and got punched in the nose.

  I went for my knife, thinking DJ Diggie Duval and/or the other Fiends had figured me out, when I stopped and smiled.

  "You fucking bitch, trying to fuck my boyfriend," she was yelling, four of her pig girlfriends behind her for backup and moral support. I looked around and saw the pussy boyfriend, standing across the street, trying to blend in with the rest of the trees.

  "I would've fucked him if he would've gotten hard after I swallowed his load," I said and took a step forward, which she was not expecting. Usually, with five-on-one odds I'd be expected to cower, run or try to talk my way out of it. Fuck that. I was wasting too much time already.

  She recovered and cocked her fist for a haymaker, which was the typical punch from a bitch like this. She had no real idea how to fight, learning her moves from shitty teen movies or watching the boys fight over who got to finger her smelly ass.

  I knew how to fight. Before she could finish the trajectory, I'd hit her twice in the face, busting her lip and her nose. She tilted backward like a cartoon and I grabbed her by the front of her shirt, letting her drop to her knees instead of busting her head open. I blamed the piece of shit boyfriend for being such a dick and telling her.

  "Who's next?" I asked, standing over the bitch.

  Her friends hesitated but I saw the look in one of their eyes. She'd attack and then the rest would follow suit.

  I put up my hand. "I'm going to make this simple, so listen closely. I have nothing against any of you. In fact, I don't blame her for sucker-punching me. I blame him." I pointed across the street. "He told me he was single and I believed his lies. He's a scumbag and a cheater."

  "You still fucked him," one of the girls said.

  I shook my head. "I blew him, I'll admit it. But when it came time to do the deed… let's just say he wasn't up for it."

  Two of them chuckled.

  I put my arms to my sides. "If you feel beating me up is going to change anything, knock yourselves out. But he's the one you should be mad at, not me." I put a hand out to help the girlfriend get off the pavement. She hesitated but took it.

  As I helped her up, I winced. "I'm really sorry about your face. What a shame. It'll heal," I lied. I'd fucked up her nose and she might need surgery or she would have to walk around with it crazy bowed. "The lip, too. I'm sorry. Instinct took over."

  She smiled, blood dripping from the corner of her mouth. "It's not your fault, and I'm sorry for punching you. He gets me so mad."

  All of us looked at him across the street and he looked away.

  "What are you going to do now? You're so much better than him," I said. That was the truth. She wasn't a bad-looking girl but I could tell she didn't think much of herself. Dickheads, like this guy, used and abused her, and she got to say she was dating a musician and he got a free ride while he tried to fuck all her friends. I was sure at least one of the chicks behind us had fucked him, most likely the one who wanted to throw down.

  "I need to kick him out," she said quietly.

  All of her friends were surrounding us now but not in a hostile manner.

  "I wish you well." I put a finger under her chin and smiled. "You're a beautiful woman who can get any guy she wants." I purposely winked. "Anyone you wanted would be lucky to have you."

  She got the subtle hint and blushed. "Thank you. I'm Melinda, by the way."

  "Cherie."

  "What a beautiful name," she said awkwardly.

  I took a step back and waved at her and her posse. "You ladies have a nice night and good luck with him." I turned and looked at each one in turn, as I said, "don't be fooled by his shit," and the one who wanted to fight looked away. Bitch. Some friend she was.

  They dispersed, leaving the two of us.

  "I'll see you aro
und," I said.

  "Do you live around here? Your accent sounds Southern but not Florida."

  I smiled. She wanted to keep me around, either for moral support when she blasted him or for… something else. I'd be interested in the something else with her. "I'm from Texas. Just passing through. I'm going to find a hotel before I move north."

  "North where?"

  I shrugged my shoulders. "Wherever the road takes me." I knew it sounded cliché but I really had no idea where I'd end up. I knew I wouldn't be leaving tonight. DJ Diggie Duval was still in the area, but far enough away from me my senses weren't tingling. I'd have to deal with him in the morning.

  "It's such a shame for you to be paying for a hotel," she said. "I… um… you could crash with me tonight, if you want."

  I looked across the street. "What about him?"

  "What about him?" she asked defiantly. "His shit will be out in the street when I get home. He's not coming back."

  "Is he your ride?"

  "Hell no. I'm his ride. That loser doesn't own a car, or anything for that matter."

  "You need to go break it off with him. Give me your address and I'll meet you there. I have something to do real quick," I said.

  "Wish me luck."

  "Good luck." As I watched her walk toward him (admiring her skinny little ass, too), I hoped I had enough luck for what I knew I was about to do. Sometimes I wish I didn't have morals, such as they were. And this conscience thing sucked, too.

  * * * * *

  I don't believe in using guns unless absolutely necessary. I have knives for the fun shit. As I stepped up to the touring bus, I pulled one of them from my boot and tried the door, knowing how arrogant Fiends were. It was unlocked.

  I stepped right inside and smiled when one of the Fiends, the drummer, looked up from his fancy bong. I was next to him in two steps, pulling up my shirt and exposing my tits. His hand shot out to paw at me and I moved into his space, slicing his throat and covering his mouth in the same motion. He gurgled, eyes wide, before finally dying. Fiends might be bad ass motherfuckers, but I can still slice open their necks and bleed them out… with the blades I carry. You, Average Joe on the street? He'd laugh at your pocketknife. And then eviscerate you.