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As much as I’d love to think that I’m hard-boiled, guns have always made me nervous… though given my line of work that ought to be a given. I suppose there’s something about *holding* a gun – the thrumming, buzzing sensation in your arms as you hold aloft one of those death-dealing, lead-belching devices you see in movies – that makes the blood rush all the way to your head. Which head I can’t say for certain, but it’s something I hope to never find out – doubly so as I round the corner from the parking lot and mosey into Shannon’s Spirits to begin my shift. The familiar, musty odor of the old carpet filled my nostrils as I sauntered up to the counter and knocked on the bulletproof glass, arresting Rob’s attention from the game on his phone.
“’Scuse me,” I croaked in my best geezer voice, “You got any Blanton’s?”
Rob snorted. He smiled as we continued our little routine.
“No sir. We do not.”
“What about Pappy Van Winkle?”
“Ain’t that you?”
We both laughed hollowly. It was practically a ritual at this point, but the joke was starting to show its age. Nevertheless, there was some catharsis to be found in ridiculing our customers, a bit of payback I reckoned.
“Looks like it’s gonna be a slow night,” Rob mused as his eyes swiftly locked back onto the game. The Norfolk Tides weren’t doing so hot this year it seemed, judging from his furrowed brow.
“Damn. I was kinda hoping that we’d stay just a little busy before traffic fuckin’ *dies*.”
“Sounds like a you problem, Neil.”
“You know how things get around here, man. And I’d much rather do *something* rather than nothing.”
“Maybe you could finally finish that magic book of yours.”
He pointed to the gap underneath the register where I kept an artifact of strange, but undeniably arcane power: a beat-up, yellowing copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. It was the damnest thing, but every time I opened it up a customer would materialize from nowhere to bother me. Hell, I haven’t even gotten past the first few pages thanks to the seemingly endless parade of chucklefucks that wander in on my watch.
“Maybe…” I said, “But we’ll have to see.”
…
And true to form, the little curse fastened onto that little book certainly worked its magic. Of the twelve times I dared open it since my shift began, twelve customers appeared before my very eyes much to my chagrin. Some were actually pretty decent, just wanting their booze and getting out of my hair to return to whatever pocket dimension they stepped out of. The ones I hated were the lottery customers. They *always* lingered and constantly demanded my attention over which was the most efficient way to burn away all their money. I thought I would’ve been used to this by now, but I have yet to find customers more wretched than the lotto-heads, even after three years of working here.
But now? It was still. Silent. The hands on the clock read 12:05am. It *was* a slow night, and my eyes soon fell upon that jinxed book again as I stilled a yawn.
Ah hell why not?
I cracked it open and began pouring over the pages. Every once and a while, I shot a suspicious glance up at the door only to find that it hasn’t opened in the last 20 minutes. Finally, I may actually make some headway with it! It was practically glued to my hand as I wandered out from behind the bulletproofed counter. The tallboy cooler needed restocking, but I take great pride in being a multi-tasker.
But alas, my uninterrupted reading streak had come to an end, as signaled by the clattering bell above the door. Turning away from the fridge, I tore my eyes away from the page with a sigh.
“Welcome to Shannon’s Spirits. How can I hel-”
But the words died in my throat, as I found myself staring down the needle-like proboscis of the… *thing* before me. Six black-scleraed eyes stared back at me, as it gestured with a chitinous finger towards my hand.
“Good book?” it said in a soft, feminine voice despite its pronounced mandibles.
“Huh?”
The question didn’t even register. I was transfixed to the spot by the mere sight of it, but the sheer mundanity of the question broke whatever spell had fallen over me.
“O-oh yeah.” I croaked. “...Vonnegut’s a good writer.”
It cocked its head quizzically.
“Not used to seeing such a beautiful woman like me I take it?”
The question knocked all the air out of my lungs. Its form *did* bear the suggestion of a woman, aided in part to the voluminous Victorian dress the creature wore. I’m no expert on fashion but even I could tell it was a genuine piece and in good condition no less – not like the costume pieces you’d find at photo booths down by the pier. But my brain was in the process of imploding as I scrambled for a response. I could only stammer pathetically as my mind raced. The thing before me only giggled.
“I’m just teasing you, dear boy! Goodness, you need a sense of humor.”
“A-ah. No harm done.” Cold relief washed over me. “How can I help you then… ma’am…?”
“I’m looking for a book.”
“...Ma’am this is a liquor store.”
“Not just ANY book,” it… *she*…? snapped. “MY book. I lost it and I think I may have forgotten it here.”
This thing came by earlier? How the FUCK did Rob not see her walk in??
“Uh… I dunno about any lost books, but I can show you our Lost & Found basket. Maybe it’s in there?”
“Perhaps,” she hummed. “Please, lead the way.”
I’m still wondering how I managed to keep my head on straight for so long as I lead the insect-woman to the back and pulled out the battered old bin that constituted our Lost & Found. In truth, it was full of old tchotchkes and knickknacks that sales reps kept bringing by. With a huff, the thing leaned down and started digging through the pile indignantly as I slowly back away from her and – when I felt the coast was clear – booked it back to the counter. I tore through all the piles of crap underneath the register, before pulling out the boss’s little peacekeeper: a .357 snub-nose revolver that *conveniently* had the serial number filed off. As my hand closed around the handle, a buzzing sensation surged up my arm and flooded my senses. It was all too familiar to me, and I hated it so. I hated hated HATED it.
My head pounded and bile began to rise up my throat. But above the ringing in my ears, I heard something that snapped me out of my trance: footsteps. Too many of them for one person in the back.
Nope.
Nope nope nope FUCKING NOPE.
Whatever it was, I was not about to find out first hand. I tossed the revolver back under the desk with a shudder of disgust, grabbed my keys, and ducked out the door of the bulletproof like my life depended on it.
It probably did.