12:00 Midnight

I could feel strangeness in the air as I drove through the midnight mist. A full blood-moon eerily hung, spilling it’s maddening radiance across the black gulf water which was but a short distance from highway 90. It was a desolate night, and I had the only car on the road. I rolled my window down—my tongue sheathed in moistened, salty ocean breeze. Something was going to happen, something terrible.

I turned on the radio to hear the latest weather report, the announcer said, “I repeat, hurricane Katrina has been upgraded to category 3 . . . land fall is less than twenty-four hours. The National Weather Service reports the storm will hit somewhere between New Orleans and Biloxi, Mississippi. I repeat…”

I turned it off not wanting to listen to one more second. Rain started drizzling, while wisps of wind rocked my car—short but powerful gusts. I decided to stop and have a bite at Waffle House, the bright yellow sign flickered as I pulled in, foreshadowing what was to come.

Waffle House

wafflehouse

wafflehouse

Luckily, there were only four cars parked out front and the open sign was still on. I walked in and was pleased by the delicious aroma of sizzling bacon and hot coffee. The beautiful young waitress smiled and quickly walked over, “Hello! How ya doing tonight?” She reached out and took my hand—I was flushed—my heart pounding. She stopped suddenly and turned around, facing me, close enough to kiss me, “Table for one?”

I tightened my grip on her petite, lovely hand and groaned, “I love you…will you marry me?”

We both giggled like silly love birds—my attraction to her overwhelming. I staggered, falling into my seat. “Candy,” the angered cook bellowed from behind the bar, “Get your ass back here and clean up this mess.”

“I’m Bobby.”

“I’ll think about it Bobby, my name is Candy,” she said walking backwards towards the cook, smiling and lips plumped.

Remembering a favorite line from the movie Highlander, I said, “Candy…of course you are.”

The Showdown

In the booth across from mine was a most bizarre spectacle, the likes of which would be a headliner on the Jerry Springer show. Two wannabe gangbangers in a standoff, staring each other down. One was a bald headed albino; a wicked blond brow forcefully muscled atop his piercing pink eyes—the left cocked high, both bloodshot. The other, a short pudgy Italian with two missing front teeth, the rest capped in gold. They both wore black leather jackets and nostril rings, something I find revolting.

They both turned their attention to my eavesdropping manners. Before they could ask, I quickly explained, “What it be like homey, name’s Bobby.”

The albino smirked, “Yo dude…I’m Casper. This is my boy G-dog,” then returned to their showdown.

Casper unsheathed a fourteen inch bowie knife, cut open the brick of cocaine sitting next to his eggs, trimming himself out a large line. “This better be Peruvian flake,” he grumbled, dunking his ghostly face into the pile and snorted like a wild boar, “Ahhh…damn, this is fire.”

G-dog nodded his head, smiling, “I told you, Pedro just flew it in today, 93.7% pure, no gasoline taste, no fat, no filler.”

Casper stabbed his mammoth blade into the table top, a single sparkle of light twinkled from the beautifully polished 440-c stainless steel—splinters blasting from the gouge. He tossed a brown paper bag onto G-Dog’s licked-clean plate and proudly stated, “That’s one-hundred and twenty thousand front money, I’ll get you the rest in three days.”

I was mortified, thinking these guys would never leave a live body before they departed. I turned to notice the scruffy old man sitting in the corner, sipping a hot cappuccino. He sported a nefarious scowl, wore a tattered army jacket and a hideous scar engraved into his face – a scar obviously stitched with heavy gauge fishing line in a wicked night of blood drenched warfare sometime in his nightmarish past. The man continually glared at the drug dealing pair. I fully expected him to unleash a shotgun and paint the walls in blood sodden flesh . . . any second now.

I suddenly picked up the scent of perfume, noticing lovely legs standing before me. Candy stood as an illuminated goddess in her waffle house skirt, tenderly speaking through freshly glossed lips, “Bobby, you haven’t even looked at the menu,” sitting down beside me, “we close in twenty minutes and I haven’t had my break. Would you like something or maybe . . . I can spend twenty minutes with you?”

Do you think it’s safe in here? There’s a dangerous situation brewing,” I said.

She leaned over, kissing me and said, “The storm? Hehe…the only thing dangerous is you and me . . . together.”

What kind of Waffle House is this? I felt like I was having a pulp-fictionesque nightmare, expecting Quentin Tarantino to be standing behind a camera, directing every scene. I said, “This could be our last night on Earth. What should we do?”

An argument exploded from the gangster booth—Candy nibbling on my earlobe—the vulgar albino stood up . . . blasting, “That’s nothing. Look at this,” pulling up his shirt to reveal five closely spaced bullet wound scars, “Five .44 magnum hollow points, right in the belly, top that . . . punk.”

G-dog jumped to his feet, pulling his collar down. A gruesome, serrated scar of pinkish tissue protruded thickly from his neck, “Ear to ear . . . fool. A razor sharp machete nearly cut my head off back in ‘97.”

They sat back down—Candy twirled her tongue across my neck, a soft hand moving inside my shirt—the two thugs in a horrific standoff. I was sweltering; scared, shivering, excited and petrified in stone rigidity. The old man in the corner throated, “You two need to get a hotel room.”

Candy had me intoxicated, her wondrous green eyes luring me wherever she wanted, “I love you too Bobby and yes . . . I’ll marry you.”

Candy turned towards the old man in the corner and shocked me, “Sorry daddy! This is my new husband.”

He replied, “Take her with you . . . please.”

Was he talking to me? That was her father? Both psychopaths took a huge snort of cocaine and faced off once more. The milky white Casper said, “Watch this.”

bloody knife

bloody knife

He extended his middle finger, crowned by a crusty yellow nail—apparently gnawed on by jagged teeth. He held the razored knife on his finger tip, gently peeling a strip of flesh from top to bottom—blood drizzling over his half eaten waffle. He continued peeling his finger as if it were a blood filled banana. He wound the three flesh strips together and tore them off with his teeth—spitting them on the table. He then put the skinless finger in his mouth and suckled the juices from it.

My body quivered in grotesqueness, trembling in the clutches of supreme horror. Candy saw the sickening event, turned and kissed me—wet with lust. Unbelievably, she said, “Wow, what a turn on . . . I wonder if they’re going to kill each other,” and licked my cheek.

My eyes opened so wide, it almost tore my eyelids off. My heart muscle began twitching in pain, pumping violently, my aorta about to tear open. G-dog quickly snatched a .44 magnum out of nowhere pointing it at Casper’s chest, yelling, “Take your shirt off. I want to see what five slugs look like ripping an albino’s chest open.”

From behind, a mammoth explosion murdered all tension, then another and another. The brutal stench of blood and gun smoke fogged the dining room in hellish fury. The sound of body parts pelted the greasy floor. I wasn’t sure if I was even alive. Once the smoke cleared, I witnessed two headless bodies lying on the floor, one with no arm. I turned and saw the old man standing with a sawed off shotgun, smoke still percolating from the molten barrel.

He walked over and said, “Let go of my daughter and step aside.”

Candy kissed me once more, smiling, “I love you Bobby,” while a cold chill slithered up my spine.

She stepped on Casper’s scarlet soaked chest and reached for the bag of cash. The old man whirled the shot gun at lightning velocity. Candy’s head disappeared and then the thunderous blast of death. She was overcome by morbid twitch—a fountain of hot blood pumped forth—splattering—shrouding me in terror. I stood as a frozen body, so scared I couldn’t even shake. Her headless body took three drunken steps and fell as a lifeless lump. I then heard the echoes of her last scream—after her decapitation—time passing in nightmarish segments.

Reprieve

The man stuffed the shotgun under his jacket and said, “Tastes like mercury don’t it?”

“What?” I asked.

“You’re covered in blood boy . . . it’s all up in your mouth. I killed her so fast, by the time she realized what happened, she was already dead. I wasn’t about to let that greedy little witch get a single nickel of my money . . . and besides, she didn’t really love you anyway. She would have murdered you dead—soon enough.”

He noticed how frightened I was, how fearful I was. He said, “Yep. Snakes, spiders, pungi sticks, napalm . . . nothing grosses out this old dog. Get outta here before I change my mind. If anyone asks, tell ‘em Sweet Willy did it.”

I’ll never forget that night as long as I live. Hurricane Katrina actually uprooted the entire Waffle House building, washing away all traces of what happened that night. Even if I told anyone, I know they wouldn’t believe me. I burned my blood soaked clothes and the car I drove that night. Every time the wind blows, I taste the morbid flavor of mercury.

*The Waffle House picture is from Flak Magazine.
*The bloody knife is from Tanner Cheeseman.
*This story is absolutely made up fiction by Bobby Revell.
*Sweet Willy currently lives richly in Burbank, California with his wife Helga and pet pit bull terrier, Roscoe.

Share and Enjoy:
  • StumbleUpon
  • Facebook
  • Twitter