Sex in the Time of Zombies

had the cramps real bad, ordered a beer, and collapsed into that chair there. And he’s been slumped over the tabletop ever since, wallet right out in the open while his drink gets warm. But Bambi, she’s acting like she’s actually chatting him up, tossing her hair over her shoulder and laughing like he just told one of the jokes we’ve all heard a million times. The show has to be for Chester because the only witnesses are me, Jimmy Z, and Wilson who’s pulling triple duty as bartender, bouncer, and doorman. And we all know exactly what she’s up to.

See there? How she slid that wallet off the table as easily as she slips out of a halter top? If the dude wasn’t so strung out, I’d almost feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch. But maybe Bambi’s not as slick as she thinks she is; looks like he’s starting to stir, almost as if there were some sort of psychic burglar alarm on that tattered fold of leather. She’s scramblin’ now, fishing twenty’s out of the wallet and dropping it back to the table in one smooth movement. But junkie boy there, he’s so whacked out of his gourd I don’t think he even realized where he’s at. Much less that some piece of white trash just nicked the payment for his next fix: his eyes have this dull, sunken look to them and if I thought he was pale when he came in it’s nothin’ next to how he looks now. Shit, dude’s so far gone you can see the veins just under his skin, like little blue roadmaps.

Bambi, she just keeps tryin’ to play out cool.

“Shit, sugar, I sure as hell would love a drink. As long as it’s a’coming from a good lookin’ stud like you.”

God, I hate that stupid little cum rag. That little southern twang to her voice? As fake as those tits. And everything else about her for that matter.

Bambi calls out to Wilson for two shots of tequila and to make hers a light. Which is actually code. Her and Wilson have a deal worked out, see; when Hollister’s not around and Bambi orders a light, he’ll basically just fill her shot glass with water. Well, he’s bringing over the drinks now so just watch how this goes down.

See how Wilson makes sure Bambi gets her drink first? Wouldn’t do to have a customer get the water shot. He puts the salt shaker and the little dish of lemon wedges on the table, takes the money, and heads back to the bar. They’ll split the night’s light tequila take in the parking lot later; but for now, Bambi shakes a little salt onto the fleshy part of her hand, licks it off, throws back the water, and immediately suckles that little sliver of lemon. Lick it, slam it, suck it. The story of her life. But the smell of the lemon, it keeps the mark from noticing there’s no alcohol on her breath if he gets that close.

The music’s been blarin’ through the amps this entire time and I thought I was just kinda watchin’ all this while I teased my way to the point where the clothes start comin’ off. But maybe my dance has lost a bit of its oomph; or perhaps I just can’t hide the complete and utter disgust I feel for that revolting little tramp. Whatever the cause, Chester starts to turn around so he can see whatever the hell it is I’m lookin’ at and Bambi shoots me one of those back-off-bitch stares that she’s famous for. The expression, though, is as fleeting as sobriety on Two-For-One Tuesdays. By the time he’s facing them, Bambi’s all sugar and spice again.

Junkie boy looks like he’s starting to come out of whatever drug-induced haze he’s been floating in. Like he’s just now startin’ to realize that ain’t a tuna fish sandwich he smells in the air.

Bambi puts more salt on her hand and holds a lemon wedge with the other.

“Hey, darlin’, why dont’cha let Bambi give you a hand with that drink of yours.”

Dude makes no move toward the shot glass, but Bambi’s launched into a full production now that she’s got an audience. She shakes her ass a little and leans forward so that her boobs practically defy gravity by staying in her top. She reaches the salted hand forward.

“It’s okay, sugar… go ahead and give little ’ole Bambi a lick.”

I don’t know why but the little hairs on the back of my neck start to bristle and my stomach feels like its turned into a petrified walnut. I realize that the cowgirl song is still blasting with its incessant techno beat… but my dancing slows to the point that that I probably look more like a mental patient than anything even remotely exotic.

I find myself wishing that the six-shooters slung around my hips fired more than just blanks. But, again, I don’t know why. All I know is that something is wrong. But I can’t quite put my finger on what.

Junkie boy turns his head slightly and looks at the salted hand being offered to him.

There’s something familiar in his eyes. Something that reminds me of the way the pervs stare at my tits when they talk to me. As if I were nothing more than just a piece of meat.

Everything happens in a blur. The table overturning as junkie boy bolts out of his chair, grabs Bambi’s wrist, and yanks her to him. It looks like he’s trying to give her a hickey right where the pile of salt was, but Bambi is screaming, her voice shrill and piercing. Her face is a mask of pain and she tries to pull away, but he’s got her wrist tight and she’s pounding at his face with her free hand. Now I see the blood starting to ooze across her skin and notice that it’s also on junkie boy’s lips and chin and the full realization hits me: he’s biting her. Chewing on her hand, ripping through the flesh and muscle with his teeth….

I stand up there on the stage and the music sounds so muffled and distant now, as if I were hearing it through a concrete wall five feet thick. For a moment everything seems to swim in and out of focus and I start to wobble on these damn stiletto heels. I can feel my heart fluttering and the air I’m breathing seems too warm, too thin…. I grab onto the silver pole, the one closest to the front of the stage, to brace myself. Part of my mind is yelling do something, do something! but I can only stand and watch, transfixed by the way Bambi’s blood glistens in the strobes.

Wilson, however, is running across the floor but to me it seems as if he’s moving in slow motion. He’s got a Louisville Slugger and he’s choked up on the grip nice and low, same way my Dad taught me to do it. Gritting his teeth together he swings and the bat whacks into cannibal boy’s spine but that mother fucker just keeps right on going. He’s tearing chunks of flesh away now and Bambi’s still struggling and screaming, lines of dark mascara and tears running down her cheeks.

Wilson swings again, this time hittin’ right around the left kidney. Cannibal boy whirls around, his clenched teeth pulling a long ribbon of muscle from Bambi’s hand as she stumbles backwards. Before Wilson can even ready the bat again, freak show launches himself at the bartender and tackles him to the floor. This time he goes straight for the kill like some kind of fuckin’ jungle cat, biting and gnashing at Wilson’s neck as this spray of blood arcs out and splatters against the fucker’s face.

Everything is thrown back into sharp focus again and it’s almost a physical feeling, like being in a speeding car that suddenly slams on the brakes. Chester’s huddled in a corner and he’s yelling at his cell phone, his voice barely audible over the unn-tiss-unn-tiss-unn-tiss beat of the music; Bambi’s scrambling backward on the floor, clutching her injured hand to her chest and leaving bloody smears across her cleavage.

Wilson has stopped kicking and twitching and seems to hold little interest for cannibal boy now that’s he’s perfectly still.

Dead. Wilson is dead.

At some point during the struggle, Wilson had ripped the buttons off that fucker’s jacket and when cannibal boy turns to face the stage I see a shredded white t-shirt crusted with blood. Bulging out of the rips in the fabric is something pink, something that almost looks like linked sausage, and I realize he wasn’t cramping when he first staggered into the bar. He was trying to hold his own guts in. Now, however, that doesn’t seem to be much of a priority. They slide out of his wound and plop to the floor as a stench like a combination of rotting food and warm shit overpowers the usual scent of the bar.

The drums have stopped and there’s this long, slow note that seems to slide down into my very soul.

No one could live through that….

We stare at each other for a moment and there’s a pause in the music, just long enough for a heavily reverbed sample of the hawk-like flute from those Clint Eastwood westerns to echo through the club You’ve gotta be freakin’ kidding me.

Snare drums, synthesizers, and bass all kick into overdrive and this is the part where my top would normally be flung off in perfect sync with the explosion of music, revealing the twins in all their perky glory. Instead, I’ve got this fucking dead guy runnin’ full blast toward me, blood streaking his face while his guts trail along behind him like he’s some dog that’s pulled free from its lead.

He clamors up the side of the stage and my heart is pounding twice as fast as the music, which is rapidly building toward a crescendo; this weird taste floods my mouth, like I’ve just stuck the tip of my tongue to a battery or something, and my field of vision narrows to the point where all I can see is this blood drenched thing scrambling across the stage with outstretched arms.