by Liz K. Lorde
Why weren’t you there for me?
Dad wipes at his lip with the now empty handle of vodka still in his hand. He looks absolutely livid with me right now, and before I can even start to understand what’s going on – he winds his hairy arm back and chucks the plastic bottle at me.
I throw up a hand to try and deflect it, but my hand only partially makes contact with it. Pain blossoms against the back of my hand, and the bottle strikes the left side of my face – leaving hurt where it touches.
I cry out and beg him to stop, but he just advances towards me. “Why are you doing this to me, Viv?” He asks it with such hate and fury in his voice that he actually shakes. He shakes! I’ve never seen him this bad before, and my heart is splitting in two.
This is just a bad nightmare. And I’m going to wake up, and Mom is going to be here, and Dad is going to be sober and well and making me pancakes like he used to.
He’s going to be better again, and I’m going to be good and responsible and nice. I know it.
I just know it…
“This is the third fucking job you’ve blown this month,” he rages and blocks my movement whenever I try and move past him. It’s no use, even if I’m quicker it’s just too tight of a space to try and move. “You gonna cry? That was always your problem sweetpea,” his lips frown and there’s pain etched on the lines of his face. “You get too damn emotional, you cry too damn much.”
“That’s not true!” I say, “I was there for two months.” I still couldn’t believe that he threw something at me.
“It’s not good enough,” he tells me and we circle one another throughout the den. I’m trying to find an escape, but he just won’t let me. “I’ve worked my bones raw since the day you were born and I’ve got nothing to show for it,” he looks like someone’s just told him that he has cancer. “I’ve got nothing left. Nothing. I’ve loved you so much and for so long, I’m so tired.”
“Well I’m really sorry, Dad,” I say with sarcasm. “I’m sorry that I’m such a fuck up and a failure that you’re… embarrassed to have me or whatever. Are you going to blame me for Mom leaving, too? Is that what you want to do?” I can feel the twin fiery serpents of anger writhing up my spine. The only thing that he ever told me about her was that she left when I was young. That she hitched a ride to Chaos, Nevada and never came back.
“We’re not talking about your mother,” he says with disgust, “we’re talking about you,” he says in a shouting voice, obviously indicating how little we really are talking.
All we’re doing is hating each other. Hating one another and pretending to be happy.
I bet he’ll be really happy when I’m gone.
Gone for good.
I turn around on my heel and open the glass double doors to my bedroom.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Dad says, following just behind me as I go into my room and sink to the floor beside my bed.
I do not answer him. Instead, I gather my black backpack from underneath the bed and get back to my feet. I start stuffing clothes into it, and Dad says, “Don’t ignore me Vivian. What are you doing?” I just keep packing my backpack. Bras, panties, socks, a few books that never did me wrong, my smoking pipe and a partially filled purple bic lighter. “You’re gonna leave,” he announces loudly in a drunken slur. “You’re leaving me too, huh? Hah. That’s great. Just great.”
I whip my head to look at him and shoot him a nasty look, “I am.”
Dad’s eyes fill with water, and he shakes his head. I can’t tell if he’s wanting to be thankful or if he’s wanting to be afraid for me… or if he’s just thinking about the next drink. “You’ll be back,” he says it with some humor to his voice, like I wasn’t serious about doing it.
I gather a couple of other essentials and sling the pack over my one shoulder, and I start walking as fast as my legs will take me back into the den.
“Vivian,” Dad says and trails just behind me. “Vivian!” He repeats, this time maneuvering himself in front of me and blocking my path once again. “Stop this, please. I’m sorry okay, I, I didn’t mean to hurt you like that. Just talk to me please.” But I have nothing to say, so I just slip right past him and go from a quick walk to a sprint, towards the front door. I open it up and the sun beats down on me, with those clear mocking blue skies up above. I turn my head to see Dad drunkenly ambling in my direction, and I press forward, running to my truck and getting inside before slamming the door shut.
He comes right up to my truck and before he can do anything I lock the door.
“You stop this right now,” he tells me in a deadly but still pained voice, “what’s wrong with you?” He punches his hand against the door and it makes me flinch. I turn the engine and he’s trying to reach up over the window to try and unlock the door, but he simply can’t.
I’m trembling from the shouting contest with my father, and I throw the truck into reverse and my tires squeal when I pull out; without even checking to make sure there’s nothing behind me, I hear the sound of something loud snapping and or cracking. Instantly, anxiety floods my system but I quickly realize that it’s our mailbox that I’ve destroyed.
“Jesus Viv!” Dad explodes. “Come on what the hell are you doin! Where are you going to go? Viv! Vivian Samantha Blackwoode!”
I turn the faded leather wheel, put it into drive, and pull out into the road, positioning the car just outside of the driveway. I grip the wheel tight and holler at him, “I don’t know! Maybe I’ll go and throw this fucking truck into the river.” That’ll make him happy again, my death for Mom’s absence. The first and only smile I’ll ever give him.
It’s the last thing I say to him, and as the words leave my lips, I get hit with a hay maker of instant regret. I throw my foot to the gas pedal and my tires howl like a banshee as I speed off, knowing the road to my destination will be a long, lonely and difficult one.
Chaos, Nevada. The City of the Damned.
CHAPTER 2
CONNIFER
I CAN FEEL MY PHONE BLOWING UP but the liquor was long since in me, and I fucking knew that Jerry was talking shit. It had to be him, because it was always him – and this was the last straw; I could feel it in my bones, the violent urge to make him hurt for what he did.
My father always did talk about there being a reckoning for every mistake that a man could make in his life. Thinking about him sends heat through my body, and I have a swig of spiced rum from my bottle.
Swaggering through the sinister and pulsing club with a bottle in hand, I cut my way into the dance floor. Everyone’s either blitzed out of their mind on coke or acid or alcohol – and in this city? We liked to keep it that way. That’s the kind of culture we cultivated from birth to grave. One giant crumbling Metropolis of sin, corruption, and the sinister urge. The sinister urge to self destruct.
Live big. Live hard. And never fucking stop. Chaos, Nevada, has a simple rule to live by: You snitch you die. And that goes doubly so for my and my boss’s club.
The walls of the place are black, and scattered along the face of them, there’s silvery names of the people that did right by us. The people that died got to be put up on the wall with their name inside of a silver star. Additionally, some local artists did murals on the wall of all the celebrities that passed through here. Most of the time their next trip of the night was the ER.
It smells like pussy in this place. Pussy and fear. And when I’m all out of trim to use, there’s no better fix than a good skull to crack. The floor of Blackstar is a rich red, a color that I get intimately familiar with on the daily. Not my choice that people act stupid. They only seem to smarten up when I bare my teeth. Smoke dances through the air and there’s a veritable storm of different colored lights. Pulsing greens and brooding reds. The music is intense with it’s throbbing and distorted bass, and there’s a heavy crunching guitar riffing behind a sinister synth lead.
This is Blackstar. The Ligotti Empire’s private get-a-way for all things sin. Drugs, girls, gambling.
You name it and we have it. For a price.
My job around here is to keep the vermin from finding their way inside.
Call it muscle, whatever, I don’t give a fuck. I’ve been doing this job my whole life since I was nothin’ but a boy in the scum infested slums of Ireland. You think your life is fucked up? I bring the half empty bottle of spiced rum to my lips and tightly purse ‘em around the bottle’s end. Taking a swig, the liquid burns down my throat delightfully – and hell if I couldn’t be happier.
Killing your own father is fucked up. Chasing him down all through America just to drive two knives across his mouth and watch him bleed? That takes it to another level. Sex, rum, and taking care of business. That’s how I deal with it. Therapy costs too much and cramps my style. Stepping up from the dance floor and into the surrounding level, I feel like I’m practically floating my way closer and closer to the bar.
Where he is.
You think I don’t hear the whispers of this city? Of it’s violence? I hear every detail, baby. And the second you start badmouthing the hard working women of our empire? You’ve sold your reputation, and your life away. Scanning the packed bar, my eyes fall on the river of many colored thongs gracing the stools of the bar. Heat rakes from the base of my spine and up my back, and a delightful sensation forms just behind my cock.
That’s when I see him. I grip the glass bottle in my hand tighter, threatening to break it right there in my hands. Like I’d give a shit, what’s life without getting a few scars?
Hurt finds you no matter what you do. Better to say fuck you to the hounds of hell than curl up an’ die.
Moving faster now, I walk over to James Bermenskies: AKA Jerry Bridgeburner. He’s sitting at the bar with all the other ladies nursing down a brown bottle of beer. Probably some piss water shit that Walter, our bartender, has to keep around for the nine to fiver’s that never made enough money for real beer. Not that I’m knocking them or nothing.
Every bone in my body is singing to send a clear message to this snake.
From looking at him from behind, James has greasy and short black hair. The sick fuck probably doesn’t shower, surprised anybody even still talks to this piece of human trash. He’s trying to talk up some fine little thing to his right. Fair skinned, long platinum blonde hair and an attitude about her that says I want nothing to do with you.
My kind of girl.
Or one night stand, I should say.
Getting out of my head, I close the distance between us, and when I’m a good six feet away from the fucker, I boom out with a smile: “Hey!”
James turns his head, and so do a few girls from the bar.
The bartender himself stops cleaning his tumbler glass and shakes his head from left to right. “Oh no, Con I swear to Christ—“ he starts, but I’m sure you know where I’m going with this – don’t you lass? I simply do not give a single fuck when it comes to another man imposing his will on me.
James’s eyes round in pure and unadulterated fear. He knew that there was going to be a reckoning.
“Stay outta this, Wally,” I feel the power of my words all the way in my chest, the reverberations rolling through my bones – and God did it ever make me feel alive.
In the blink of an eye, the girls, and a few dudes with whom I had no quarrels, immediately get up from their seats and began their escape. Those that didn’t whispered curses beneath their breath, let out gasps, and a few of the real kinky bitches, bless their souls, from the peripheral of my vision – I could see ‘em trying to undress me with their eyes.
Some of ‘em lived for this shit. But then again, someone had to.
James freezes in fear like a coward. “Whoa, whoa-whoa-whoa! WAIT”
I curl the left side of my mouth into a sadistic and amused smile. Did you wait before you turned in Jacqueline to the cops for prostitution? Begging ain’t gonna help nobody, lad.
Taking a last swig from my bottle, effectively emptying it, I pull it from my mouth and smack my lips, grabbing the neck of the glass bottle and raising my arm.
With a mighty swing that makes me feel like half a God, I strike James hard on the temple of his head. Glass explodes at the point of contact and a couple of girls, and a particularly effeminate man, find it fit to scream. Come on now, what’s the need for that? This is a typical day for me.
Blood immediately begins to show on his head, and he yells out in an anguished pain. He shoots his hands up to the wound and he stumbles from the black bar stool, nearly collapsing right into that pretty little blonde. “Fuck!” He screams out, and then he repeats it again.
Typical. Can’t even bleed with a little bit of manly grace.
I feel my hand shaking lightly with adrenaline and I can feel my heart pumping hard, the warmth filling me, making me whole. “You see what happens?” I tell him as he starts to stumble away from me, trailing droplets of blood against the floor. Good thing we made the floor red for this very reason. “No,” I told him in a dead voice, sauntering in trail of him as the girls watched me work. “Stop,” I continue in a deadpan voice, “I’ll never catch you…”
He keeps holding his head, and let me tell you, when you get hit with a bottle. When you get hit by me? Makes you lose your senses. When you’re a coward, being confused is a natural reaction – or at least that was what experience taught me. Look don’t judge me. Or do, I don’t care – it’s just what I was born to to, okay?
James straightens himself out as the bartender follows along with us on his side of the bar. James then turns to look at me, “You bloody bastard,” he seethes, picking out some of the shards of glass.
One of the girls is looking at my hand, so when I continue to close the distance between me and James, as the sound of synths and guitars and drums go off in the background, I look to my hand. Oh. There’s a bunch of red and some pieces of jagged glass jutting out. No matter, just another way to recount the days after a smoke and a fuck in bed.
I cock my head at the man, “You fucked her against her will,” I tell him. “You ruined her,” I tell him, “and you turned her in. You know what you are, James?” I ask rhetorically, making sharp, quick steps to him and grabbing him by his sleazy, sweaty suit.
He reeks of stink and piss, burning cologne and stale beer.
James begins to say, “I’m—“
“No,” I growl, “you don’t fucking answer ‘less I tell ya to. Understand?” I narrow my eyes at him and pick him up off of the floor, and a couple of girls at the bar are already busting out their phones. This’ll be all over social media before the night is done with.
We have our genius social engineers for that.
“Tell me you understand, mate. Say it. Say it I want to hear you say it.”
James wiggles like a bloodied worm trying to get his way out of the dirt. Not happening. “I understand,” he pleads, “I understand just let me go, please, I think you – I think you really hurt my head.”
“Oh I hurt your head?” I ask with some vitriol to my voice. “I hurt your head,” I say absently to myself and suck in some air through my nose. I give him a second to dread what’s next, and then I set him down to the floor, and I clear my throat. “It’s time you learn some manners, mate. And this is me hurting your head.” I forewarn him just before grabbing him by his hair and yanking him between two women and their respective seats.
The whole damn club is practically watching at this point. Some of them cheer for me, but it means nothing to me – it’s all meaningless praise as far as I’m concerned. Let them love me if they want, I’m not changing who I am.
Ever.
I bring his face, lightly, down to the rich and brown, wooden bar counter, and then I shove him hard against it, so that the wood digs against him. Continuing to apply serious pressure, I lean in real close, and I can feel my ripped muscles working hard to put this pest in his place. The two girls on their barstools say something to the lines of ‘OMG’ and back up.
Smart move, ladies.
“Now this i
s me hurting your head. Understood?” I chuckle darkly to myself, “yeah, I thought so. You fucked her, and then you turned her in you rotten, two faced bitch. You know how hard she works to feed those kids?”
“I’m sorry!” James begs, struggling beneath the weight of my body and force – you and I both know that he’s no match. Don’t even need to go more than 50%. “Please – I – I thought that it would be okay!”
I push him harder and he cries out louder.
Walter comes over now and gives me a stern look that I need to stop. “You’re scaring the customers again, Con.”
“Scarin’ ‘em?” I ask, and then bring my head up to look at Walter. “Walt, they love it. You been working here long enough to know that. Hell – once I’m done here I’m probably gonna go sign a few pairs of eager tits.”
“I don’t care, and I doubly don’t care about you signing any young and disillusioned pussy,” he argues in that no-nonsense tone. “You’re dirtying up my bar. Dirtying up my bar means…”
James feels the need to interrupt us, “Guys,” he spittles out, “seriously?”
I press him harder against the bar, “Quiet.”
Walter folds his arms over his chest, and his white and long mustache wrinkles, “Dirtying up my bar means more work for me. So shit or get off the pot.”
I stare him down with a serious face, feeling the booze still working it’s way through me. After a beat of time I beam with delight and show him my pearly white teeth, and laugh, “Alright, alright. When you’re right, you’re right. You hear that, James?” I ask him with an undercurrent of glee in my voice. “Today’s your lucky day. Sleep tight and think on what you did, okay?”
He nods his head stiffly, trust me life is hard when you got a real man’s full body weight bearing down on your skull. I’ll give the rat bastard that much, he could slither like a proper cockroach. Something clearly clicked in his brain though, when he says, “Wait, sleep tight?”
“Lights out,” I say sing-song and lift him up in one quick motion, and then grunt as I bring him down hard against the counter. I feel the way that his skull hits the wood, and I can feel the force of it work it’s way up my arm. There’s a satisfying thud and the man instantly loses consciousness.
