| Wednesday, February 20, 2013 | |
A little background on this one is necessary, I think, just to confirm that I haven't completely lost my shit. Penny and I were at a local bar on the weekend to watch a bunch of aging rockers strut their stuff. Amid the madness, a man sat at the bar who looked totally out of place. He was drinking Chardonnay in a Budweiser bar and was dressed to the nines....creepy does not describe his look and demeanor, and as I found myself staring at him, this came to mind..............

The sound of the guitars in the small room was deafening, but the crowd was soaking it up. Middle-aged men in Affliction t-shirts pounded their fists in the air. The women danced in front of the stage, their baby fat bodies squeezed into outfits plucked from the closets of their teenage daughters. The smell of spilled bear and stale sweat mixed with the powdery scent of dry ice to create a biker bar potpourri that the crowd breathed in willingly. The rock gods on stage were old, but they still put on a show; the lead singer swung his dyed golden locks in time to the guitar riffs, his eyeliner now streaking down his face and nestling in the deep lines barely hidden by his foundation. The crowd didn't care how he looked, especially since most of them were reaching that age themselves. They sung, they danced, and they threw back their cheap beers at a rate that equaled the speed of the music.

That kept the people behind the massive wooden horseshoe-shaped bar busy. They tossed beer can to servers and pulled pints as fast as they could, "talking" to the patrons seated at the bar in a series of nods and finger points that indicated their order was next. Nestled among the sweaty crowd was an immaculately dressed man in his mid-fifties. He sat at the bar, posture perfect, hair perfectly combed, and tailored suit ironed to wrinkle free perfection. The dark clothes were in stark contrast to his ghostly pale skin, which seemed to be almost translucent, so tightly was it stretched over his hollow cheekbones. The bartender pointed at him, waiting for his order, but the man just stared, cold blue eyes seeming to burn a hole through the server.

"DUDE!! What you drinking.?"

The eyes shifted ever so slightly in a quick up and down motion. "Chardonnay," he said.

"Any particular fucking year, man?" the bartender asked with a laugh.

"Whatever you have is fine, just bring me a Chardonnay."

The bartender muttered something under his breath as he pulled a fingerprint stained wine glass from overhead. Reaching into the fridge, he poured the wine from a box that featured a picture of some glorious French valley, but which was actually concocted in a little hick town 50 miles north of Atlanta. He slid the glass across the bar and said, "Eight bucks, dude."

Unblinking, the man dropped a ten on the bar, the note as pristine and clean as his suit. "Keep the rest."

The bartender flicked the man a small, one finger gun salute before moving on to the next person at the bar.

The band was in high gear now, blasting out an old AC/DC song that had the crowd hollering at high volume. He may have looked out of place, but the man's lips moved in time to the music, never missing a word.

"You like this song?"

He turned his head to face the woman asking the question. She looked like an advertisement for a cut-rate plastic surgeons office: botox lips, pulled back skin, and over-sized breasts all clearly on display. He just stared at her, still no sign of a blink, but the blue of his eyes seemed to be getting a little darker.

She leaned in closer, thinking he hadn't heard. "I see you singing. Do you like this song?" Her swollen lips brushed against his ear as she spoke. She knew what she was doing. She saw his clothes, the perfectly groomed nails hair, and she smelled money. She thought he looked creepy, but she'd been with worse.

"You feel like dancing?" she asked, lips a little closer still, tongue flicking against his lobe.

He turned to face her now, rictus smile plastered across his too tight face. "Perhaps a kiss?"

She shuddered involuntarily, but was spurred on by the designer label she spied on the inside of his jacket. Without answering, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. They felt dry and cold, and she felt a little flutter of something not quite right begin to niggle inside. He put his hand on the back of her neck and puller her closer still, her cosmetically engineered breasts pushing against him. She started to struggle, but his grip became tighter, nails starting to dig into the flesh on the nape of her neck. She couldn't move and felt the panic swell further still when he clamped his teeth down on her tongue.

A Guns n' Roses song echoed around the bar, the sound obliterating her muffled pleas for help. He gripped her tongue tighter still with his teeth, jaws moving ever so slightly as he started to saw through the meat. Once he had it tight in his grip, he started to suck, the way one does when lassoing a long piece of pasta. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as though it has a fish on the line. The slurping continued until her tongue was gone completely and she had gone limp in his arms. He turned back to the bar, propping her against it as he did so. He held his glass of wine up to the light cast by the NASCAR race showing on TV and then guzzled it down.

The bartender rolled around again and said, "Wanna see a menu, dude?"

"I ate already." He slid the empty glass across the bar. "Chardonnay."


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