Contents
I
II
III
Also By Jarred Martin
The Ten O'clock Man
On the Lake
Black Heart, Green Hell
God With the Great Glass Eye
A Hard Man is Good to Find
Make Thy Body a Temple
It Speaks to Me
Human Cockroaches
When Your Sevens Come Up
The Spooky Doll
STRANGER REALMS
Stranger Realms
By
Jarred Martin
Stranger Realms © 2017 by Jarred Martin
Also by Jarred Martin
Mules: A Novel
The Long Red Trail
You Fucked With the Wrong Motherfucker
Flyblown and Blood-Spattered: Ten Tales of Terror
The Ten O’clock Man
No one in Colt Brewster’s life had ever accused him of making haste. Not his mother or father growing up, or his schoolteachers, not any boss who ever worked over him, or the ex wife who used to moil under him, and certainly not Orval Meditz, the man behind the bar at the Leaky Tap, where Colt was presently seated. Colt Brewster was a man content to sit back with a insouciant grin plastered across his face and let the world come to him. And because he was square-jawed and handsome, and could make you laugh along with him even if you bore the brunt of the joke, the world always did.
“For maybe the fourth time, pal,” Orval Meditz tossed his bar rag over his shoulder and leaned toward the newcomer with both hands on the bar, “if you’re waiting for the answer to come to you in a dream or something, at least close your eyes, fool me a little. Or else, just tell me what you’ll have.”
Colt just grinned and cast a sly glance down the bar at Miss. Daisy Day, who had been skipping the empty stools between them whenever she thought he wasn’t looking. “I’ll have whatever you’re having,friend,” said Colt, without looking at the barkeep.
“So happens I was just about open a bottle of Dom Perignon for myself,” said Orval. “You want yours neat, or on the rocks?”
Colt laughed at this, loud, deep, and genuine. “Say, fella, you’re alright,” and he nodded towards a whiskey on the counter behind Orval.
The barkeep got out two glasses and poured, and when Colt slapped a bill down on on the table and told Orval to keep the change, the man just waved him off and muttered, “hang on to it til you want another,” and threw back the whiskey.
Colt smiled and quickly shoved the bill into his shirt pocked. He looked around the bar at the nearly empty tables and lonely dance floor. There was an old timer sitting alone, a young couple at a table, the man nursing a beer, the woman stirring a cocktail with a little black straw looking bored. There was Daisy, only one seat between them now and looking to close the distance, and all the way at the end, another weary souse, called Iris. “Say, I’d really buy that Dom if I had the dough, you know it?”
“You would?” asked Orval, dubiously.
“Why, sure I would; if I had the dough,” he repeated. “I’d buy a handle for everyone in here.” He took another look around. “Wouldn’t break me, neither, nearly dead in here.”
“Well, then you’re a damned fool, then. My old man taught me always to charge a fool twice, ‘twice for the price of a lesson learned, or twice for them’s not careful to judge the difference is all same,’ he’d say. Of course, he was a blathering damned fool himself.” And Orval committed himself to wiping the bar down once more.
Colt picked up his drink and turned to Daisy who had finally made her way to the stool next to him. “Miss, this is to the memory of the barman’s father.” He tipped the drink back.
“You want to know something about yourself, mister?” She smiled at him.
“Sure.”
“You’re smooth.”
“Me?” Colt feigned incredulity. “Naw. I’m rough as cold butter over stale bread.”
Daisy Day shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve never seen that tightwad Orval pour a free drink for anybody. And whats more, your little aw-shucks routine doesn’t fool me for a second. You hosed him, and you knew what you were doing the whole time.”
Colt smiled back. She’d gotten his attention. “Say, you got me pegged, don’t you? You’re pretty sharp for a barfly.”
“I see your type weekly, mister. And if you think calling me a barfly is going to make me blush, well, think again, because you can find me here most nights, and I’m not shamed. In fact, most everyone here is a regular, so you’d better watch what you say.”
“ A regular, huh?”
“That’s right. I can make introductions if you like.” And without waiting for a response, she singled out the old, sad-looking man, drinking alone. “That there is Mister Mendel- say hello mister Mendel,” she called. Mister Mendel waved a hand without looking up. “He’s heartbroken,” Daisy said, aside. “His wife passed a while back, and he never got over it, poor thing.”
Colt nodded toward the man. “Good to know you.”
“Over there,” she continued, pointing out the young couple at the table, is the Raines, or soon-to-be Raines, Delma and Paul. Show me the ring, honey,” she called across the bar. Delma raised a hand and wiggled her fingers so her new diamond ring caught the light.
“Felicitations,” Colt raise the remainder of his whiskey up to them and emptied it.
Daisy went on. “And at the end of the bar there,” she motioned to a gnarled woman in a cocktail dress, “that’s old sourpuss, but I’ll bet she’ll let you call her Iris. Hell, I bet she’d let a good-looking buster like you call her all sorts of things- wouldn’t you, Miss Iris?”
The woman at the end of the bar made a quick face and returned to her drink.
“Iris, gorgeous, the next one’s on me,” said Colt. “As a matter of fact,” he raised his voice so the whole bar could hear, “I’ll buy a drink for everyone in here. Just know who’s buying it is Colt Brewster. Barkeep, let me have a glass of ginger ale, and six straws.” A slight groan issued and Colt beamed at his own wit. He spun around on the stool so he leaned back against the bar, facing Daisy. “So you’re a woman in the know. Can you tell me if this place gets any livelier, or am I witnessing the peak?”
“Well, actually,” said Daisy, “This place can get pretty jumping sometimes.”
“Just not on a Friday night, I guess?”
“Not til after ten o'clock, at least.”
“Why” said Colt, “what happens at ten o’clock?”
“Stick around and find out.”
“You can’t just tell me?”
“Nope.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
Daisy thought it over. “A bit of both. It’s hard to describe, but I wouldn't even if I could.”
“What kind of mystery are you on about?” Colt checked his watch. “I got thirty minutes to spare for a mystery, I guess. You’re lucky you’re pretty, though, or might not.”
“You’re lucky I’m not prettier,” Daisy smirked, “Or I might not let you buy me that drink.”
“What drink?” said Colt.
***
A half-hour is a fine amount of time. In half an hour, everyone at the Leaky Tap had at least two drinks. Young Mister Raines played the jukebox, and Daisy slow-danced with Mister Mendel, and Colt took Iris for a spin, prompting the Raines to join in, and for thirty minutes, it really didn't matter that there were only seven people in the dive, including the bartender. They danced and drank like it was the eve of a brand new year; a year six un-hopefuls could finally look forward to. But the thing about a half-hour is that it only lasts a half an hour, and when its a good one, it goes too fast, and when it’s a bad one, you only count all the other half-ho
urs to come after.
The music stopped abruptly. On the dance floor, all the booze hounds looked awkwardly at each other, holding on and standing too close for the silence’s comfort. Each returned to his seat, slowly, and with the sort of despondent sense that whatever joy they had so briefly caught hold of had once again slipped through their fingers, as it so often did.
“Alright, people,” shouted Orval behind the bar. “It’s nearly ten, so if anyone wants another drink before then, get the orders in quick or stay dry.
“What’s at ten,” said Colt, a little dizzy from the exertion and the booze. “This place close down or something?
“Or something,” said Orval. “A word to the wise: Don’t look him in the eye. Don’t even speak to him. He might even know your name, and God help you if he does, but even if he says it, don't answer him. And for the love of life, son, don't take anything he tries to give you. Don't even look at it.”
“Don’t talk to who? Who knows my name? And what’ll he try to give me? You’re all cracked, each and every one of you.” Colt Brewster looked around the bar, every soul in the joint was stock still, staring up at the clock on the far wall with nearly-identical looks of suspense.
“I’ve never seen a more daffy collection of individuals,” Colt muttered. He turned back to Orval, why don't you set me up with one of those whiskys while we wait, what do you say?”
But Orval only backed away a few steps, absently shaking his head. “Too late,” he whispered.
“Hey! What gives? My money’s still green last time I-” Colt was abruptly cut off as the front door blew open and the knob banged against the wall. A strange sense of foreboding permeated the air coming through the open doorway like a dense fog, so thick it seemed to obscure the bar room and everything in it save for the tense, anxious expressions writ on the faces of every patron, as if they were each waiting for a guillotine blade to fall. Not a body dared exhale.
A chilling wind began to blow and they could all hear it whistle through the gaping aperture. Colt turned away to chance a look at his wrist watch, and sure enough it was ten o'clock on the dot.
And then a man walked through the door, neither ordinary nor extraordinary. He was an older gentleman, with white, neatly-combed hair and avuncular wrinkles set deep in the corners of his eyes. A smallish man, distinguished by his choice of dress more than any feature of his countenance. He wore an old timey tuxedo with a high collar and white bow tie around it, finished off with a top hat. He had, strapped around his neck, a concession tray, with, as far as Cold could tell, nothing more than a series of crude wooden boxes, no more than four inches high and six in length.
Silence, as the man took the first of his short, quiet little steps through the bar room. He had just entered the place completely when the door slammed closed behind him, sounding to Colt no less sever than a heavy prison doom slamming shut.
The little old man with the tray cleared his throat a single time and began to speak with the well-rehearsed cadence of a carnal barker or patent medicine huckster. And as he spoke, there arose a great darkness all about the room, except for one large circle of light, framing the old man like a spot. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would allow me only the briefest moment of your time, I would pay it back with interest. Why interest? Why, because you’ll surely be interested in what I have to show you. I stand before you a humble representative of the wonder, horror, and amazement of the sundry items I could make available to you. That’s right, I’m talking to you, you alone, and you specifically. Do you wonder? Do you dread? Do you seek the answer to a questions? Do you seek the question to an answer? Do you lie awake at night and ponder what is beyond? When you slumber, do you dream of things you dare not speak of in day lit hours? Would you desire to see the veil of reality tugged back for the briefest of glimpses? Whatever single curiosity may plague your mind, I guarantee satisfaction. Whatever notion you may have, what ever fancy I can offer you the wonders beyond your wildest dreams. There are things I can show you, things to which words will never be invented.”
And the little old man took his tray, and proceeded to make his rounds about the room. He stopped first at the young couple’s table, his tray full of esoteric boxes wavering before them in temptation. “How about you, eh? So young, with only the future ahead of you. I can show you. Show you the future, show you many. Show you all futures to be, all you need to do is take one quick peek.” And he selected a box from t he tray and held it between them. Neither moved. They neither offered a word of resistance, nor acquiescence. They only sat in their chairs, looking forward, away from the penetrating view of the old man. “Oh, is it so,” he asked, theatrically. “Don't you want to know if you’ll have a family? Don't you want to know if you’ll be secure? Or happy? Or content? It isn't only to know, what I can show you, but perhaps to align realities entirely new, and just for you.” And still, the couple, as if for their very lives, resisted.
“Fair enough,” he said, cheerfully. “I’ll see you tomorrow. What a difference a day can make, eh, folks? See you soon.” And with that he was off to the bar.
He came to the lonely Iris, her scraggly hair, once a pale blond, now a dingy copper color, her lipstick smeared by endless cigarettes and rims of glasses, her masquera running. “And you, doll. How sweet to hear the voice of long lost loves. Men known only briefly, but still long enough to touch your heart. But is there one? More than one, even, whose mind still dwells on you? About what could have been? Perhaps one near who would come running to your side if only he knew where to find you. Would you like that? Would you like to know where to find him? And have him come to you, no matter the obstacle?” He held one of the little boxes out to her delicately between his fingers. “It’s all right here for you.”
Iris only stared dead forward and shook her head slightly. She picked up her glass and tilted it forward to suck at the watery gin left in it. A single tear slowly crept down her face.
“All well and good, Miss. Tomorrow night, maybe?”
He took his ominous tray of boxes and stood between the two recent acquaintances, selected one and held it out to Daisy in his small, neatly manicured hands. “Miss Daisy Day, the vigorous little flower of the Leaky Tap. One need not search far from here to find you. Why, you’ve been here so long, there are probably roots holding you down to that stool. But how long until this hardy flower begins to wilt? You come here every night as if you’ll find something new, and leave early every morning disappointed. I wonder if you even know what it is you seek. But I can tell you. I can show you what has always been missing. And once you see it, you’ll never forget. You worry you’re going to end up like Iris at the end of the bar there, but I wonder if many could tell the difference even now? Take a peek. Change your life.” He held a box out to her.
It was all poor Daisy could do not to tremble with fear, her stare fixed straight ahead, trying to keep her breathing steady.
“Not enticed? said the salesman? “Well, time can only make one more curious, I say.” He tipped his top hat. “Same time tomorrow, then?” And he looked behind the bar at Orval, who had been standing in the same position with a rag in one hand and a bar glass in the other since the old man had entered. “Good evening, barkeep. Nothing for me tonight, I’ve got to keep a clear head, you know. Many many, places to visit yet. You’re a good boy Orval, I’ve always thought so. Such a doting boy, the way you cared for your father, so fond of quoting him. You two were the picture of closeness. But how well can someone really know their father, eh? But I present you with the opportunity. I can reveal things about your father that will change your life. Would you like that? Would you like to know his secrets, Orval? Would you like to know why daddy got home so late all those nights when you waited up for him?” The old man picked up a box from his tray, “this, I think will be of great interest to you. Care for a little peek inside?”
Orval, glassy-eyed, grimacing, slowly put the glass he was holding down on the bar, shaking his head slightly.
“Never a taker, are you Orval? I’ll get you one day. Maybe tomorrow. It’s a date, then?” The old man turned sharp on his heels and headed over to lonesome Mr Mendel, and instead of booming at him in his pitch man voice, the little white-haired man took a box, showed it to him, and then leaned over to whisper in his ear. Colt Brewster could not hear what the salesman was saying, but watching sad old Mendel’s face fall the way it did, it must have been horrible, because the next thing Colt saw, was Mendel burst into tears and lean his head on the table with his face buried in the crook of one arm and his fist banging against the table as he sobbed. Colt looked around. The whole barroom was devastated. Everyone was stock frightened, pale in the face, and if not already crying, at least a little misty. It was an awful sight, and Colt would not stand it if he could. These were nice people, just a little down on their luck, and they deserved better.
The white-haired man addressed the room. “Well, now, I know tough customers when I see ‘em. I’m licked, and I don't mind saying it. But I’ve been at this game for a while now, and I always know when a sale is coming on. I can smell it, like a shark can smell a drop of blood in the water, if you’ll excuse the unpleasant imagery. You’ll see me soon, folks. But until then, have a good night. And keep dreaming!”
The salesman turned to leave, his little tray stuck out before him, when Colt called to him. “Hey, mister. You forgot about me. Don't you want to try your pitch out on someone who ain’t been hearing it forever? Might be that sale you’re hoping for.”
The salesman turned back, and Colt would have liked to think he’d gotten to him, but he saw instantly that he was wrong when the old man spun around, grinning like a carved pumpkin. “My dear boy, I wouldn’t dream of effecting such an obvious con on someone as shrewd as yourself. Theses disheveled drunks are just miserable enough to be tempted by what I have to offer, but how could I even dream of making someone like you curious? Why, you’re Colt Brewster, aren’t you? Whatever you want gets laid at your feet while you sit back and smile. Stick around a few days if you’d like, Colt. I might have something for you then. But until we meet again, I must say adieu.” And with that the old man tipped his hat, and disappeared, out the door, and into the quiet night.
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