The Dark Goddess - 9

The Pipe is a huge biker bar for huge bikers. I can't stand these guys-- prancing ponies in cute little matching vests, huggin' each other every 10 minutes. Buncha pansies. They even call themselves the Road Vikings. Lame. 

Inconvenient, though. Good thing I kept ol' Patches in the trunk, though it's probably got Weasel's stink all over it. Still, I probably smell worse, and besides, my gear's back there. You don't stroll into The Pipe without a battle plan. 

Patches is a long leather coat I picked up a few years back after the last guy who owned it asked me to dance. He pulled a butterfly knife, so I took it from him and unzipped his guts with it. I think he'd want me to have his coat. Problem was, I'd cut a huge hole in the back of it when I gutted the poor bastard. BLOOD and crap all over it. Jesus. At the memory of that, the birds are stirring. 

'No,' I mutter out loud, 'Patience.'

So I gotta go get it fixed and cleaned, and Wong -- my laundry guy -- he says 'lemme fix for you, 2 days you come back. No charge. Ok?' Sweet ol' buzzard. So I say fine, and when I go get it it looks perfect, clean and all fixed up. And ol' Wong turns the whole thing inside out, and the crazy bastard's covered the insides with pockets. Dozens of pockets, some of which have more inside or outside them. 'I fix for you!' I can wear every weapon I own. Not tonight, though. Tonight's a different thing. 

I put the car in neutral and push it silently into the woods a half-mile west of The Pipe. Pop the trunk, and two minutes later I'm ready to execute the plan.

Step One is the doorman, a Prospect the bikers call Boulder because he's from Colorado. Also he's wider than he is tall. I worked with the guy for a bit, and I like dealing with him, because he's stupid. "Hey Boulder, what's happening, man?"

He takes a half step toward me and freezes in place. He can see by my eyes that this is not going to end nicely. "I can't let y'in, Truck. She knows what you're up to." His voice cracks. Heh.

"Just here for my severance pay, man."

I try to walk past. He puts his gigantic hand on my chest. I stop moving, and look him dead in the eyes. 

"Fair enough." I kick him dead in the left knee and hear it shatter under my boot. Boulder hits the ground face first and eats the sidewalk. The birds can smell the blood. They want it.  "Tell 'em I ambushed you. You'll get patched in for takin' a wound for the crew."

"Jesus Christ, man! You broke my fuckin' kneecap!" The guy's crying, for God's sake. "You coulda just punched me out!"

"You're welcome." I walk past him without a look, push open the doors and enter the belly of the beast, prepped for Stage Two: Insurance. Two seconds through the door and I'm face to face with a hundred bearded guys with matching Hagar the Horrible tattoos. I've thrown ol' Patches wide open to reveal pocket upon pocket of raw MEAT, mostly ground beef. "Hey fellas."

The birds have been craving the meat for hours. Begging me to let us FEAST. I've done everything to keep the demon quiet, and now it's time to reward his patience. I shut my eyes and will the mouths to open, and they devour the meat instantly, bursting from my FLESH in a frenzied, slurping nightmare. It's maddening, but beautiful.

I start running as my body twists and contorts, sprouting more, bigger mouths with longer, sharper teeth. I am a human chainsaw-- a rabid shark of ruthless hunger. The Vikings prepare to fight, but I'm too fast. Too ravenous. 

I hurl myself into the crowd, screaming as my limbs lose all solidity, each limb stretching and uncoiling into a mass of tentacles, each one blooming into a gaping, shrieking mouth full of row upon row of razor teeth...

...I am hunger. 

I am death. 

I have come for you.

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.