Monsters in the Midwest ( Book 1): Wisconsin Vamp

by Scott Burtness

  “Sonofabitch Herb.” Dallas slapped him hard enough on the back to knock him off balance for a moment. “Son. Of. A. Bitch.” He shook his mane, face caught between a grin and a grimace while Stanley hopped back and forth from foot to foot, so excited he couldn’t make actual words. Instead, each step was punctuated with yips and grunts.

  Donnie and Stu exchanged a glance, Donnie’s amused, Stu’s much less so. “Nice run,” Donnie offered as he fished a handful of quarters and a crumpled twenty out of his front pocket. “Twenty bucks and a round of beer says you can’t do it twice. Wanna go again?”

  “Now we’re talking! Rack’em, bitches, and my distinguished associate and I would happily teach you the finer points of billiarding.” Dallas made a half bow, gesturing grandly toward the table.

  “Billiarding ain’t a even a word. Maybe you should’a stayed in school instead of going into cheesecurdery.” Stu laughed through his nose at his own joke, a sound that made Herb think of an aardvark getting a snail stuck in its nose, while Donnie shoved fresh coins into the slot and dropped the balls. While he was racking, Dallas turned his back to the Vikings fans, picked up the appetizer menu from the table, and made a show of studying the contents. While doing so, he leaned imperceptibly toward Herb.

  “Holy shitballs, Herbert. I don’t know where that run came from, but don’t you dare do it again. WHADAYA THINK, STAN? MOZZARELLA STICKS? Play good, but if you all of a sudden feel like Paul Frickin’ Newman try to hold a back a little, ok? OR MAYBE THE BEER BATTERED GREAN BEENS? NEED ME SOME VEGGIES! Don’t make it too obvious, but we gotta let them win, ok?”

  Dallas turned back toward Stanley. “You’re no help. I’m getting French fries and wings. Oh and Stanley?”

  Looking like a neglected hound dog about to get a treat, Stan’s ears, eyes and chin perked up. “Y-y-yeah Dallas?”

  “You can’t have any. Now where are those gorgeous double-D’s when you need them?” Dallas called out, scanning the bar.

  “You guys ready?” Donnie stood to the side of the table, casually chalking his cue. “I mean, unless you want to call it off. I got twenty bucks says flannel boy over there can’t run the table again.”

  “Me too,” said Dallas. “Herb, I’m betting twenty you can’t do that again.”

  “Wait! You can’t bet against your partner! That’s bullshit. He’s gonna throw it, Donnie. He’s gonna just throw the whole game.” Stu was so worked up he was starting to sound like a purple-clad version of Stanley. Dallas and Donnie just laughed, Dallas whacking his new buddy on the back a time or two.

  “Just F’ing with you guys. But we’re still gonna mop the floor with you. Unless we don’t, in which case we’ll call it a draw and go for a third. Now, who wants to play some pool?”

  Stu and Donnie grunted their assent and the game commenced.

  Chapter 17

  It was hard. Everything was backward, mixed up, out of sorts. Herb was used to trying to overcome his mediocrity, striving and inevitably coming up short. He had never been good at anything, but now Herb felt like he was intentionally shoving square pegs into round holes. He’d line up a shot, instinctively adjusting each muscle from the pressure of his index finger on the side of the cue to the amount of weight on his left big toe, pose in statuesque grace, ready himself to execute perfection, a direct challenge to an imperfect world. And then he’d catch Dallas’s eye and crumble. Shift his grip a fraction of an inch, bring his other foot forward just a tad, lean a bit further to the left, belt holding the pillow under his shirt pinching his back. And just like that, perfection would shatter, the cue would slide forward, the cue ball would streak across the table, meet its intended mate in a brief, shocking kiss, only to have both careen off in opposite directions. The cue ball would wind its way inevitably toward a terrible lie, while the other ball would narrowly miss the intended pocket and spin off to rest someplace worse than where it was before. Herb would curse, his frustration genuine if for reasons other than what the guys expected. He could’ve made that shot. He could’ve made them all and finished this game ten minutes ago if only Dallas would let him. But no, he had to play his part, be his little piece in Dallas’s hustle. He had to play badly. Meanwhile, Dallas would curse, roll his eyes, say bits like, “Oh thanks Herb, why don’tcha gift-wrap it for them while you’re at it,” and other disparaging remarks. Then he’d drop one or two himself, just enough to keep the game close.

  Donnie turned out to be a decent player, dropping two or three and always leaving Dallas a tough lay. But Dallas wasn’t a schmuck when it came to bar pool, and he’d been shooting at Stein’s since Helen was in a training bra. To the outside observer, in this case Stanley, it looked like a really close game with Dallas and Herb always chasing the lead but never quite getting there. Finally, Stu dropped the 8-ball, narrowly avoided scratching and started strutting around the table, cockle-doodle-doing like a rooster.

  “Beers! Beers! Beers!” Stu and Donnie high-fived while Dallas made a show of kicking chairs and complaining about the slope of the table. Herb just stood glowering, fingers clenching the cue like the Boston strangler practicing for a night on the town. Stanley looked at him, an odd expression on his face, but Herb hardly noticed. Watching Stu and Donnie grin and Dallas muck around like a bad soap opera actor was making his blood boil. Visions of taking the 7-ball in his hand and cracking it against Stu’s temple made his breath come fast and stomach clench. He could see, smell, taste the blood and bits of crushed skull in that greasy mullet, like ripping the skin off a dog with your teeth, getting bits of fur and grass and sandy earth in your mouth, each giving its own flavor to the rush of life and power as it runs down your jaws, coats your tongue. Oh yeah, Herb salivated. Gonna rip that mullet right off your head. Bet you won’t be feeling so prancy then. He’d suck him dry and watch those dumb, arrogant eyes go blank and all that life, all that blood, would be his where it rightfully belonged.

  “Upset stomach, Herb? You g-got the acid refluxes, huh?” Stanley appearing in Herb’s field of vision was a bucket of ice water on the fire building inside of him. He realized that he had been growling, actually growling like a feral beast, and quickly coughed and forced a burp.

  “Oh, uh. Yeah, I had some...” visions of the neighbor’s dead pug flashed briefly across his mind, “...bad goulash earlier. Must be repeating on me.” Herb rubbed his pillow-clad stomach for effect.

  “Seltzer. Soda crackers. A tuh-tablespoon of Pepto, maybe a piece of white toast unbu-bu, dry. That’ll fix you right up, sure will.” Stanley’s remedy proclaimed, he smiled and clapped Herb on the shoulder. “Make sure you w-watch that, Herby. Chronic acid reflux can c-cause throat cancer, and that’s a nasty way to go.”

  “Thanks Stanley.” Herb was struck by how much he meant it. Crisis narrowly averted, Herb walked over to the table and got ready for the next round. He and Dallas would play the hustle, they’d squeeze a few bucks outta the Vikings fans and call it a night. And Stu, with his puffy mullet and stupid Vikings jersey would never know how close he’d come to falling a few links down the food chain.

  Chapter 18

  Dallas had an arm around Stanley’s shoulders, the two stumbling in unison while Herb lingered a few steps behind with Helen. The Vikings fans had left a while ago with darkened moods and lightened wallets. Dallas put the resulting cash to good use cleaning out Stein’s beer cooler. He and Stanley, both thoroughly drunk, were singing Go You Packers, Go! so loud Herb was sure it was going to wake up Lombardi himself.

  Hail, hail the gang’s all here to yell for you, And keep you going in your winning ways,

  Hail, hail the gang’s all here to tell you too, That win or lose, we’ll always sing your praises!

  Packers! Go, you Packers, go and get ‘em, Go, you fighting fools upset ‘em,

  Smash their line with all your might, A touchdown, Packers, Fight, Fight, Fight, Fight!

  On, you Green and Gold, to glory, Win this game the same old story,

  Fight, you Packers, Fight, and
bring the bacon home to

  Ooooooolllllld Greeeeeeeeeen Baaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

  Anyone dragged from their slumber by that ballad would probably assume it was a state holiday with a parade. They’d jump up, rouse the green and yellow jammie-clad kids, grab their pennants and head for the streets, only to be sadly disappointed and stuck explaining to the kids that, no, it wasn’t a Packers parade after all, just two guys with the right priorities but bad timing. Herb decided it was probably for the best that the state’s two drunkest Packer fans were safely away from the sleeping residents of Trappersville. The only real downside was that Herb needed to drive them home.

  Herb was trying his best to disengage himself from Helen. As far as he could tell, she didn’t remember what had gone down in the cooler. Even so, she’d been all over him the whole night. He’d never had a girl express any kind of interest before, especially not one that looked like Helen. The experience was more intoxicating than a double shot of Wild Turkey with a ‘waukee’s Best chaser. Herb had enjoyed the smiles, the lingering stares, her brushing against his arm or touching his shoulder whenever she passed, but he was uncomfortably aware that she seemed to have zero interest in Dallas. It was weird. Dallas was certainly trying, all cheesy one-liners and drunken gropes, but Helen wouldn’t even take his drink orders. Herb had to repeat each order, after which Helen would slip him a seductive smile and say things like, “Anything for you sweetie.” When the bar tab finally came, there were far fewer drinks on it than there should’ve been.

  “Told’ya she’s into me,” Dallas slurred. “I tapped that and she wants it again but she’s playing all hard to get. But she’s into me. Look! Sh’didn’t charge me for my beers. Not a single one! Stanley. STANLEY! She charged you. Pay up.”

  Herb was relieved that Dallas was too drunk and conceited to pick up on the fact that Helen wasn’t “digging his vibe,” and instead was ready to surgically attach herself to Herb’s hip. It was something else he had to process. On top of everything that had happened in the past couple of days, he was trying to reconcile how the hot waitress was more into him than Dallas. Having his fangs pop out repeatedly wasn’t helping things, either.

  “Um, oh you have a good night, too Helen. Um. Thanks for the beers!” Herb ducked his head to once again hide the fangs and stepped backward, Helen matching his step back with a step forward.

  “Sure thing. Hey, how long you been coming here, you sweet little thing?” Her brow furrowed and her eyes tried to search his. “It’s almost like... I kinda feel like we’ve just met...” Shaking her head, which resulted in her bosom shaking, which resulted in Herb turning an even brighter shade of red, she continued, “Oh well. Must’ve been lovers in a past life, huh stranger? Seriously though. When did you get so cute?” She batted her long eyelashes and sidled in closer. “But you know, this isn’t really the best place to come see me. You should stop by Nekked’s sometime. Maybe this weekend? So you can, you know, really see me.”

  Nekked’s again. She’d brought it up more than a few times throughout the night. While cognizant of the fact that he was an adult and could go to a strip club any time he wanted, the thought still made him distinctly uncomfortable, like when he was fourteen and his mom found the JC Penny lingerie ad under his mattress. He’d been to Nekked’s once. Dallas had dragged him there for his eighteenth birthday. Herb had barely made it through the door when he saw the girl on the stage, plunged headlong to the bathroom, and then ran for the exit a few minutes later. Dallas had called him Premat-Herb for weeks, and Herb hadn’t been to a strip club since.

  Finally disentangling from Helen with a mumbled, “Oh yeah, sure. Um, probably see you naked. Ah, I mean at Nekked’s. Sometime...,” he scurried off after they guys. Helen just smiled, watching him the entire way.

  Chapter 19

  It took three attempts for Dallas to fish his keys out of his pocket, the usually manageable feat complicated by a staggering volume of alcohol. Finally freeing the keys, he whooped in delight, belched and fell over, causing the key ring to skitter across the pavement like a frightened, shiny critter.

  “I got this,” said Herb, scooping up the keys. “I’ll drive. You two climb in the other side.”

  Dallas stared, then squinted, then laughed. “Holyshit Stan. Herbert’s drivin’ Miss Dallas! I’m a goddamn celebrity.” Stanley burped amicably in response and the two of them stumbled around the back of Deloris. En route, Dallas kicked Deloris right in the chrome testicles. “Take that you purple sonsabitches. You suck! We whooped you good, huh? Goddamn right we did. Go you Packers, go!”

  Getting the pair into the raised up truck was tougher than Herb expected. He wasn’t used to being the sober one trying to do responsible things. After an improvised recipe of two parts cajoling and one part brute force, Herb had pulled first Stanley and then Dallas (“I don’t ride bitch in my own goddamn truck!”) into the front bench seat. Cranking up the diesel V8, he dropped the monster truck into gear and rolled out of the parking lot.

  “Who, um. Whosgunnagetyourcar hic Herb?” Stanley forced out before another long belch.

  “Don’t sweat it Stanley. I’l be ok.”

  “But who. Ugh. WhosgunnagetmycarHerby?” Stanley burped out as Dallas launched into another round of Go You Packers, Go.

  “Why don’tcha crash on Dal’s couch tonight Stan. I’m sure he’ll be able to drive you back over to Stein’s in the morning.” Stan’s head bobbed in what could’ve been assent before it flopped back onto the headrest. Claustrophobia squeezed and suddenly Herb couldn’t wait to get out of the truck and into the night air. He pushed the accelerator down and Deloris roared in response. Scrub and ditch flashed by on either side, caught in the headlights for a brief moment as the truck flew past. A few miles, a few blown stop signs and a few belches from Stanley and Dallas later, Deloris skidded around the final bend, the centrifugal force of the turn shoving Dallas and Stanley against the door.

  “Sheeeeee-yit! Where’ja learnin’ drive like that? Woooo-hooo!” Dallas whooped like a rodeo star.

  Herb glanced at his drunken friend. “Guess there’s a few things I’ve picked up lately.” Dallas snorted a semi-coherent response and Stan belched yet again. Bringing Deloris back down to a reasonable speed, he drove up the driveway to Dallas’s rambler and killed the engine. He jumped to the ground and quickly circled the truck, arriving just in time to help catch first Dallas and then a near-unconscious Stanley as they fell out of the passenger side door.

  “Whereshelen? Helen! I thought she was in the back?” Dallas squinted at Herb, all suspicion and sour beer breath. Dropping to his knees, Dallas peered under the truck. “Where’s my girl? Here girly-irly-irly! Where’s my...” Dallas’s voice mumbled off as his eyes lost focus. Still on his hands and knees, he wavered back and forth, throat working like he was about to give back the Steinknockers fries and wings. Instead of revisiting his late night bar food, he let out a long groan instead. “C’mon out babe. It’s me, it’s big D! Why you... why you gotta be like that. It’s me. It’s D... Me dee me dee.” Another belch and Dallas’s head dipped toward the ground, eyes drooping.

  Herb stared as Dallas flopped over on his back, muttered gibberish devolving into deep snores. Sighing, he dragged Stanley to the front of the truck and hung him on the fender rail by the arm. Stanley sagged against Deloris’ bug-spattered grill and muttered something about shampoo while Herb sorted through Dallas’s various keys. Finally settling on one that seemed like a winner, he untangled Stanley from Deloris’s bumper, flipped him over his shoulder and fireman-carried him toward the house. When he reached the front door, he shoved the key in the lock, gave it a twist, and was rewarded with a nice thock as the deadbolt pulled back. Pulling the key out, he pushed it into the handle lock, gave another twist and pushed the door open. That was it, though. He couldn’t move any further. He wanted to. Hell, he definitely didn’t want to spend the rest of the night hanging out on the stoop with Stanley draped mink-like over his shoulders. But despite a sincere
desire to move from outside to inside, Herb stood frozen. He tried leaning in, letting Stan’s weight drag him forward, but despite wanting to lean forward, his body simply stayed in place.

  “What the hell?” Herb grumbled, shifting Stanley’s weight to a slightly more comfortable position. The rhetorical question briefly roused Dallas from his stupor. “Sally ho, you bastards!” he called out. Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he cast a squinty glare in their general direction. “What’re ya doin’, Herby?”

  “Oh, ya know. I just figured I’d take Stan for a carry,” Herb snipped back in annoyance. “I’m trying to get you guys into your house so you can pass out and I can get on with my evening. That’s what I’m doing, Dallas.”

  “Oooh,” Dallas nodded sagely. “S’a good plan. You get in there. Go right on in. Hey, when yer in there,” Dallas settled back down onto his back. A lengthy belch, followed by an “uff dah” preceded the rest of Dallas’s thought. “S’beer inda fridge. Have a beer on me. Since Stanely’s on you. Hah! Stan’s on you. Beer’s on me. Deedle-leedle-dee. Hash’ve.... buurrrr...” Another deep snore sawed through the night air as Dallas passed out again.

  Herb glowered. Shifting Stanley again, he walked into Dallas’s home, careful to avoid cracking Stan’s head against the door jamb. After dropping Stanley on the couch in the downstairs living room, sliding off his loafers, and flipping a worn quilt over him, Herb headed back to Deloris. Pulling Dallas up and slinging him over his shoulders, he trudged back toward the house. Dallas grunted with each step as Herb carried him inside and up the stairs, finally depositing him on the king-sized bed occupying the rambler’s master bedroom. Taking a moment to absorb the absurd awesomeness of Dallas’s bedroom, which included zebra print sheets, lots of mirrors, deep shag carpet and, a quick double-take confirmed, a pair of fuzzy handcuffs hanging from a nightstand drawer knob, Herb placed Dallas’s keys square on the center of his chest. He took a mostly clean glass from the kitchen, filled it with cold tap water and set it on the handcuff bedecked nightstand. As a final touch, he slid the bathroom’s wastebasket over next to the bed in case the fries and wings decided to come back for a visit.