Living Dead at Zigfreidt & Roy
(Plus 4)
By Axel Howerton
An Iniquitous Tomes Book
Copyright © 2012 Axel Howerton
Visit the author on the web at www.axelhowerton.com
CONTENTS
LIVING DEAD AT ZIGFREIDT & ROY
HIS DARK FLAG
HENRY ROLLINS AND THE BETTER BUTTER BACON BURGER
ROSIE'S CHICKEN & BISCUITS
DARK FLUSH OF THE SITH
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COMING SOON
PUBLISHING INFORMATION
HOME
Living Dead at Zigfreidt & Roy
The old cowboy tumbled through the front door with a crash and the tinkling of the overhead bell. He slammed his back to the door as his eyes darted across the expanse of the diner. Struggling to catch his breath, he jerked around to look back past the café curtains and through the big glass windows that made up the front wall. The place was dead silent, except for the low caterwaul of George Jones coming from the tinny speakers in the ceiling.
The old man pulled himself up to his full standing six-and-a-half feet. He was lean and taut with ropey muscle, but his face wore every one of his seventy-plus years. He smoothed the downslopes of his oversized moustache, straightened the white-straw cowboy hat on his head and wiped his bloody hands on the front of his stained white shirt. He cast a single cautious glance back toward the door before striding to the lunch counter, seemingly oblivious to the stares and whispers around him. He parked himself on a well-used stool, one foot planted on the floor as he hooked the worn heel of the other boot in the footrest. The old man shifted his weight as he reached behind him and pulled a gleaming revolver from the back of his jeans. He placed it on the counter, resting his hand over the polished wood handle. Two older women in a booth shared frantic whispers back and forth, then pried themselves from their seats, fumbling with their handbags as they rushed out the door with the overhead bell ushering them on their way.
The cook loomed behind the counter, all thick arms and thick neck. He was bottom-heavy and short-legged, a Grizzly in an apron. He stared down at the old man from blunt eyes canopied by dark and heavy brows.
“I don’t need any trouble in here, pal. I can call and have the cops here in–”“Can I get some damn coffee?” the cowboy interrupted. His thick West-Texas twang betrayed a slight tremble.
The cook stood stiff, one hand hidden beneath the counter. “This ain’t the kind of place you wanna try anything funny, old man. You come in here like the fucking Alamo and ask for coffee? Pass that pistol over and I'll think about it.”
“I ain’t startin’ no trouble. I just want some goddamn coffee. .” The cowboy glared from under the brim of his hat. “I’m from Texas, son. I ain’t givin' my gun to no man. I just don’t want to be settin’ on the goddamned thing all night.”
“And whose blood are you wearing all over your shirt?”
“Well it ain't nothin' nefarious on my part, but that’s a story you’re gonna wanna hear. Pour me a goddamn cup of coffee and I’ll tell it,” the old man grumbled, taking off his hat and gently setting it down to cover the pistol.
The cook stared long and hard at the old man before relaxing his meaty shoulders. He muttered under his breath as his hand came up from beneath the counter, holding a yellowish coffee cup. He filled it from a stained coffee pot that looked a decade or two past its prime, and slammed the mug down on the scarred counter, leaving a third of the brown liquid in a pool around the cup. The old cowboy nodded his thanks as the bell on the door sounded again and another random soul disappeared into the Las Vegas night. The old man seemed to cringe at the sound of it and, after a cursive glance over his shoulder, he spun around on his stool to take measure of the place. It was the same as every other greasy spoon he’d seen over the years - peeling wallpaper, Formica tables with vinyl-padded aluminum chairs, and ratty booths with shaky lights swinging above them. Most of the customers had left in a hurry when he shambled into the place, and now there were only two tables left occupied. A balding fat man sat in a booth, poking away on the tiny keyboard of his cellular phone with meaty, sausage fingers adorned with gaudy rings. He wore a shiny purple shirt, tight silk barely containing his bulbous gut. Three empty beer bottles , a shambling pile of race sheets and a half-eaten club sandwich littered his table. The other occupied table, at the front of the diner, held a young couple arguing in harsh whispers and oblivious to the rest of the world.
The cowboy jumped as a sudden blur of lights and wailing alarms flew past the street-side windows. Every face in the room turned, as if by mutual instinct. The old man watched with visible discomfort as the parade of sirens sped by, before returning to his coffee.
The cook let his gaze turn to the cowboy, and he spoke in a low growl
“Guess if the cops were chasing you, you wouldn’t stop in here, now would ya?” He continued to eye the old man with a suspicious glare. “You got any idea what’s goin’ on out there? That’s the third set of cops and ambulances we’ve seen in ten minutes.”
The old man turned slowly on the stool, his rheumy eyes hardening to a concrete stare as he leaned forward. “I told you I’d tell you the story. But you ain’t gonna believe me. Not by a long shot.”
The cook crossed his arms and redoubled his stare. “Spill it, old timer.”
The cowboy took another sip of his coffee and set his eyes on the dark reflection in the bottom of the cup.
“Was over to the casino to see that show with all the animals and them two fellas, the magicians. You know? The ones wear them white jumpsuits full of shiny bullshit. Got a couple of white tigers to match?”
The old man paused, staring into the oily black dregs in his cup, as another raucous choir of sirens charged past the diner. When quiet had fallen back over the room, the cook cleared his throat in hopes of urging the cowboy to get on with the story.“Yep. That's a damn fine cup of coffee, boy. Y'know, over at the hotels, they only got them places with all the ven-see latt-tays and mocha-fritos, or whatever the hell they call em'-”
The cook stood solid, glaring down with the face of an old bulldog waiting for his can of meat.
The cowboy coughed, “Yep. They give out free tickets to keep ya comin’ back to the casino for more. I’ll tell ya, it was the wrong goddamn show to see tonight. Never seen any crazier shit in all my days.”
“Yeah, it’s a crazy fucking magic show all right,” the cook replied, rolling his eyes. “You’re in Vegas, Pops. Were you looking for card tricks and top hats? Let's hear about the blood and the ambulances.”The old man sneered. “I'm gettin' there, you asshole. There was this spooky lookin’ Indian fella settin’ in the back of the theatre when I got there. Not American Indian, y’understand. ... East Indian, or maybe he was one of them Packeeestanis. He was wearing one of them white suits with no collar, like James Coburn in them spy pictures.”
“Nero,”said the busboy, hustling back with a tray full of greasy dishes and bottles full of cigarette butts.
“Who in the hell was talking to you, Tommy?” growled the cook.
Tommy cowered behind the pile of dirty plates and cups. He spoke in a soft, trembling voice. “I was just saying, they call it a Nero suit.”
“It’s called a Nehru suit, you retard,” the cook barked, waving the busboy away, “go wash some fucking dishes!”Tommy carried his load behind the counter and back into the kitchen. There was a clattering sound as the dishes tumbled into the stainless steel sink. Tommy scuttled back to the counter. He was small and slight with a hunched posture and a mouse-like twitchiness. Tommy grabbed the coffeepot and brought it around to refill the stranger’s cup. He hesitated as he caugh
t a glimpse of the barrel of the pistol, poking out from beneath the old man’s hat.
“Obliged,” the cowboy muttered with a nod and a slight rise atthe corners of his mouth. “Have a seat, son.”
“So what, old man? So there was some Indian guy wearing a white suit? Everybody wears white in those Vegas shows.” The cook prodded.
“The Indian fella weren’t with the show. He was just standin’ in the back, watchin’. He was big for an Indian, too. Big barrel chest and jet black hair done up all slick-like , wasn’t wearin’ one a them turban hats like some of em' do. He looked real mean and sorta angry. I got up to use the can and there he was, just standin’ in front of the exit. He didn’t do nothin’ at first. Just stood there staring at the fellas in their shiny suits.”
The cowboy paused, closing his eyes as he was caught by a hacking cough and struggled to catch his breath. He shuddered and wavered on his stool. The cook’s eyes shot to the gun, even as Tommy reached out to steady the old man.
The cowboy slapped Tommy’s hand away and began to cough again. “I’m all right damn it! I don’t need no goddamn help!” His cough was wet and croupy and it took a full minute for the old cowboy to recover and set his legs stable beneath him. The cook kept his eyes on the pistol.
Ruddy color flushed in the old man’s cheeks as he righted himself on the stool. His eyes moved to Tommy, who was leaning as far away from the cowboy as he could without falling on his ass. The old man scratched at the sparse white threads on top of his head and gave Tommy a conspiratorial wink
“I’m alright, son. I just got a lot more days behind me than in front of me. Got me a bad ticker,” he said, tapping his chest with two fingers.
Tommy smiled and drew a harsh glare from the cook, who threw his head back toward the kitchen, the signal for Tommy to return to work. Tommy ignored the gesture as another round of sirens sounded in the street. The cook lifted his eyes to the windows, a dim look of concern slowly working its way through the dull landscape of his face.
“Must have been some serious shit,” the cook declared. “Where’d you say this magic show was?”
“At that big hotel on the strip. The one with all the palm trees and silvery shit everywhere,” replied the old man.
The cook snickered, “Vegas, old man. Every place in town is silvery with fuckin’ palm trees.” He shook his head and took a filthy rag from his back pocket, wiping the counter as his eyes stayed set on the street outside.
“So what happened next?” Tommy whispered, inching forward on his stool.
The cowboy turned and squinted at the question, eyes full of water. “You ever seen somebody get killed, son? Bad, I mean? Up close? Not on TV or in the movies.”
The boy shook his head, open-mouthed.“Nothin’ much more happened until them white tigers come out. Then that Indian fella stormed up toward the stage, hollerin’ to wake the dead. Two security guards tried to grab him and... I ain't never seen nothin’ like it,” The cowboy waved his hands in front of him like a third-base coach calling off the steal. “That big Indian just waved his hands and the security guards--big fellas, mind--they went flying back as if they was kicked by a horse that knows its about to get gelded. He never touched em. Just waved his goddamn hands in the air!”
The fat man in the purple shirt had been listening, and had inched closer and closer until he found himself easing into a seat at the counter. “Then what happened” the fat man asked.
The cowboy leaned back to look at the source of the new voice and nodded as if accepting him into his circle. “Well, like I said, he tossed them security boys off to the side. And then, no word of a lie, that big ol' Indian bastard put his arms out like Jesus on the cross. He just threw his arms out and kinda lifted up there onto the stage like a goddamn Genie or somethin’!”
“You mean he levitated?” asked the fat man.
“That’s the word. That is the word, fella. Levitated. Like he just got lifted straight up off the ground and set down there in front of the magicians. He started yellin’ something ‘bout desecratin’ sacred tigers. Then he held his hands out and I’ll be goddamn if those white tigers didn’t step up to him, nice and pretty, like a couple of housecats lookin’ to get their bellies scritched.”
The fat man had busied himself clacking keys and consulting his phone. “White tigers are from India. They were a symbol of ancient royalty and were considered to be an animalistic representation of the Hindu gods. Some people say--”“Hey, buddy. Shut the fuck up and let the man tell the story,” said the cook.
The fat man looked up and went silent, sulking on his stool as the cook gestured for the cowboy to continue.
“Well, that’s just how it all started,” sad the old man, tipping his cup to drain the dregs into his gullet. “Once them big cats were sitting at his side, that Indian leaned down and whispered somethin’ in their ears. The magicians was stompin’ around and yellin’ for security to get the guy off of the stage. The Indian stood up and clapped his hands together and held em’ there in front of him, yellin' something in whatever the hell language he was speakin’ – judgin’ by what came next, it may have been the Devil’s own secret tongue.”
The cook rolled his eyes again. “Fuck sakes, you take a long time to get to the point!”
Tommy stiffened on his stool and glared at the cook. “Shut up and let him finish, Earl.”
The cook stared daggers at the mousy kid and flushed from his neck up, as if he had just been slapped in the face. The old cowboy smoothed his moustache, nodded his thanks to Tommy and continued.
“We was all just settin’ there, shocked, and wonderin’ what the hell was going on, the tigers had rolled over on their sides, moanin' and twitchin', but when he slapped his hands together again and hollered, those two tigers jumped like spring-loaded death machines and took them magicians down. Blood came flyin’ up from the one man and sprayed all over the place. The show was up on these big screens so you could see close up. People started screamin’. The other magician, the tow-headed one, had the full left side of his face tore clean off to the bone, with a big flap of skin just hangin’ there like wet leather slappin’ back and forth against his naked teeth while he was thrashin' and flailin’ around. Those tigers were tearing chunks off of the two of em' and they was screamin’ like a couple of banshees. Those fancy jumpsuits were shredded and tore up and blood was flyin' every which goddamn way!”
The cowboy paused for another sip from his cup, letting the image hang in the air with the tension radiating from the men around him.
“Well, that’s when the shit really hit the fan. The audience started stampedin’ to beat the band and folks were getting trampled left and right. I was already up and at the exit, holdin’ the door open and trying to wave the women and children through. I could see that spooky Indian fella, standin’ up in the middle of the stage, his fancy suit still spotless and white as the heavens. He had the biggest smile on his goddamn face you ever saw. He threw his arms up towards the rafters and shouted out some more of his gobbledygook. Then he started jumpin’ up and down like he was callin’ down the very thunder of Heaven itself.”The cook started searching the shelves under the counter, and not finding what he was looking for, rushed into the kitchen shouting, “Shit! Where’s my goddamn radio?”
The cowboy drained his coffee, and Tommy got up to get him another cup from the scorched glass urn.
“Good goddamn coffee, that’s fer fuckin’ sure,” the old man muttered, “only goddamn vice I got left at my age. Sure enjoy a good cup of coffee…”
“So when did this happen?” asked the fat man, once again caught up in tapping at the keyboard of his phone.
“’Bout twenty minutes ago.”
The fat man was turning a sweaty, sickly yellow, and glanced nervously to the front windows of the café. “Did they catch the guy? Did they trap the Tigers? Are there fucking Tigers running around out there?”
“Worse than goddamn tigers, friend,” the old man laughed.“Shit! The b
atteries! My goddamn phone’s stopped working. Shit!” The fat man slammed it onto the counter. He called to the couple near the front “Do either of you have a cell with ‘net access?”
They responded with a matched pair of blank stares, before returning to their bickering.
The fat man stood up and began pacing, pulling at his rings one at a time.
Tommy was staring back into the recesses of the kitchen. “Where the heck did Earl go?” he asked. “Hey! Earl! Earl?”
Tommy climbed down from his stool and crept back into the kitchen before returning to his seat. “He’s not there. He must have gone out back...”
The fat man was still fidgeting and staring out the window as if he expected two rabid tigers to burst through them at any second. “Do you think I can make it to my car? Do you they’re running around loose out there? Fucking tigers?”
“Do you wanna set yerself down and let me finish the goddamn story while I still got it in me? We're runnin' out of time.”
“What about the goddamned tigers?” The fat man sputtered, wild-eyed, as he stumbled back to his stool.
The old man sighed, ignoring the panic building around him and continuing, regardless of whether any of them were listening.
“As I was sayin’. After that Indian made the sign with his hands and shouted out that spell or curse or fuckin’ voodoo-hoodoo-whatever-it-was, the lights blew out. Exploded! Like there was some kind of power surge that was more than they could handle, and - now this part’s pretty clear in my mind, cuz I wondered how they made these fancy special effects without no power - but a big ol’ wave of green light kinda pushed out from the stage, over the crowd. I felt scared then, like I ain’t never been scared before. I been bit by a rattler. Been shot in the guts back in the war. Had to sit and watch my sweet Alice waste away from the cancer. .. but I ain’t never been so damn terrified as I was right that second. I was still standing at the door when I saw that goddamn light comin’ right for me--and though I be cursed for a goddamn coward, I pulled that door shut tight and I hit the fuckin’ deck.”
Living Dead at Zigfreidt & Roy Page 1
