Chapter 1: The Word of the Day is ROAD KILL
- The remains of an animal that has been killed on a road by a motor vehicle.
- One that falls victim to intense competition.
So, what do you do when you see a large white rabbit hitching a ride at the side of the road?
There she was, as big as a Great Dane, I swear, sitting on the shoulder of the Glenstone Avenue exit ramp off a highway called the James River Freeway, with one ear bent and pointing up the ramp to the city street, sort of like that Playboy logo. You know, the bunny with one ear tipped forward? Anyway, my Gran taught me manners and to follow the Golden Rule, so I did the only thing I could do. I offered her a ride.
Stick with me here. I know just what you’re thinking…how in the world did I know that this bunny was a “she”?
In backwater Louisiana, where I come from, most guys aren’t smart enough to know when it’s time to run away from a fight…only the girls (and maybe a few gay guys) have the good sense it takes to cut and run for it. And this one was running like one seriously large scared rabbit. Okay, okay. Technically, she wasn't exactly hopping or running; she was just standing there, thumbing it with that bent ear, but I know what it’s like to be scared, so I knew how she felt even before I picked up on the panic that was just pouring off of her. And WOW, this girl was the best bunny broadcaster I had ever run across.
I pulled over onto the shoulder, rolled down the window and waved her over, and she was already coming through loud and clear as she hopped right into the back seat of my Malibu. Then I reached over the seat to give her a little pat and let her know that I understand (a little reassurance never hurts and just seemed the friendly thing to do), and as soon my hand came in contact with her fur, I could SEE it all real clear, too. A real big…make that real huge… rat was screaming away at her, coming after her waving a knife. I jerked my hand back real quick. I mean, who knew that a rat could scream such filthy stuff? Now I don’t mean to say that a rat-fink guy was chasing her. Little Miss Big Bunny was giving off a vibe picture of a real humongous real rodent with some real mean looking teeth and brandishing (another calendar word, from one day last May, I think) a real wicked-looking knife.
And, as if she didn’t have enough going on… someone…something? else was hot on her heels, too.
Now, don’t laugh, ’cause I’m just telling you what she showed me when I got up enough nerve to touch her again. I was seeing it the same way she did in her head: some prick on a Harley bearing down on her, about to run her over. One gigantic prick, an honest-to-gosh penis, for crap’s sake, and a really big one, at that. I’m telling you, it was even bigger than a vampire’s, and, believe me, the two I’ve gone eye-to-eye with have been pretty darned big, even unnaturally large, you could say. But what would I know? I’ve met plenty of pricks in my life…they’re an occupational hazard for a barmaid like me… but it’s not like I’ve gotten many up-close and personal-like looks at the baggage these guys are carrying. The only guys I’ve slept with have been supes, and, honey, what you’ve heard is right. They really have got some pretty suped-up equipment. Oh, when I think of all the ways I’ve been super-sized… I expect I’ll find that all those itty-bitty li'l “fun meals” most of us settle for as we drive through McLife won’t really be all that much “fun” after a steady diet of Big Macs. Kinda, you know, like settling for True Blood when all you’ve ever known is the real thing.
It’s not like I need any more trouble in my life. My bunny friend isn’t the only one with a rat and a prick on her tail right now, and I’m doing my all-out best to put as much space as I can between them and me just as quick as I can so I don’t have to watch those two thrash it out with each other. Maybe my vamps have spent too much time in Louisiana, ’cause they just don’t seem smart enough to back away from what's been brewing between them. They were flashing fang and going at it real dead-serious-like, so I decided it was time for me to slip out of Bon Temps and head for the hills.
Don't get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t love one or the other of them. I do. Love them, I mean. Both. And that's part of the problem.
I’ve read the psychology books from the Bon Temps library…both of them…so I know why I’m being kind of flip about something this deadly serious. It's what I need to do to take my mind off of something that’s just too painful for me to handle. We’ve talked about this before, so you already know it's because I just can’t bear to watch either one of them do away with the other. Very soon, if not already, there will be nothing…nothing…left for me there, except you maybe, and I’m just not feeling all that strong. So here I am in …uh…let me check the map…Springfield, in Missouri of all places, looking to go someplace as normal as possible, where I can take some time to heal the kind of hurt that even vamp blood can’t touch.
Uh-huh. So that must be why I’m sitting here in my car on the side of a highway exit ramp hundreds of miles from home with a seriously large white rabbit broadcasting from the back seat (Lord, I hope that’s all she’s doing there. My upholstery…). And in my rear view mirror, I’ve got a real clear view of this huge armed and dangerous jail-tat rat and what’s got to be a six-foot at least prick both speeding up the ramp behind us on a souped-up Harley.
What. A. Joke.
Gran, forgive me for using the J-word, but jeeeezischristalmighty, what in the holy HECK is going on here? I didn’t think it was possible, but either someone put something in the water I drank when I had lunch in Branson , or the Ozarks is lookin’ way crazier than Bon Temps and Shreveport put together.
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Chapter 2: The Word of the Day is LONG SHOT
- A venture involving great risk but promising a great reward if successful; a venture unlikely to succeed.
- An entry (as in a horse race) that is given little chance of winning.
- A bet in which the chances of winning are slight but the possible winnings great.
If I was a betting woman, I’d put my money on like-nothing-you’ve-ever-seen CRAZY.
Now, weird I’m plenty used to, but what do I know? Enough to be pretty sure that checking psychology books out of the library does not a psychologist make. I mean, what would you make of this situation? Well, at that particular moment I sure didn’t have time to think about it, so I pulled a Scarlett O’Hara and put that on my I’ll-think-about-this-shit-tomorrow list. What I couldn’t put off was getting the heck out of there before the Rat and that Prick could close the gap between us.
I floored it and cringed as the tires kicked up some serious gravel before I got all four on the pavement again. As we peeled out of there, I couldn’t afford the time it would take to think about what the flying gravel was doing to the Malibu’s paint job. I mentally added this to my list and then focused on getting us off this exit ramp. I swerved back onto the shoulder to skim around to the right of the cars waiting at the light. More gravel, more paint dings, and even worse, I had no idea where to go now. As we headed into some pretty heavy traffic, I could still see Rat and Prick in my side mirror. Someday when I have time, my inner Scarlett’s gonna laugh herself silly at what’s printed there: “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” Larger, too, believe me, and right then we sure didn’t need for them to be any closer...or bigger...than they looked.
Have you ever tried to focus with a hitchhiker yelling all kinds of scared silly stuff into your head? I wasn’t having much luck putting up shields to keep her out, so serious strategy on short notice was kind of out of the question. Miss Bunny was looking out the rear window, and when her freaked-out screaming turned to “shit, shit, shit,” I hoped that meant that she was just messing on my upholstery and not that Rat and Prick were gaining on us.
There was no way we can outrun them in traffic like this, so I warned my furry passenger, “Hold on, honey bunny…here we go!” and made a world-class U-turn that any guy at Merlotte's would have been proud of.
You gotta love this car. Ask any Southern male...when you get right down to it, there’s nothing like a solid American-made vehicle with more than four cylinders. My old piece-of-crap sub-compact import would have never made it, but just like that, we and my Malibu are headed in the other direction. In the mirror I glimpsed Bunny fly across the back seat when we made the turn, and heard a sickening crack that must have been her head slamming hard against the window. As the car kicked in and zoomed from near zero to sixty pretty quick, Bunny went from her “shit-shit-shit” litany one minute to zip, nothing, complete silence the next. Too late to remind her to put on her seatbelt. Oh, shit, shit, shit. I started a think-about-how-sorry-I-am-about-that list for later consideration.
At that point, the only thing worse than having a large runaway bunny sitting on her haunches on the back seat of my car would be having a large dead runaway bunny sprawled out there. As soon as we put Rat and Prick well behind us, I’ll pull over somewhere and make sure she’s okay, I promised myself. Yes, of course I was sorry about that bump she’s gonna have on her head, poor thing…but I’m sure you understand how it was totally easier to think without her screaming into my head.
I took a quick peek in the rear view mirror and the rat-prick Harley buds were nowhere in sight. “You can relax, honey. Looks like we lost ’em,” I said and reached back to give my big bunny another little pat and to check if she was still breathing. Sure enough, I could feel the shallow rise and fall of Ms. Bunny’s respiration, but it’s what I wasn’t feeling…fur…that had me turning my head to take a peek.
What the…?
I pulled over real quick-like, and twisted around to get a better look before the car had come to a complete stop. Take my word for it, unless you happen to be a total horndog like my brother Jason, the sight of a naked girl sprawled out on the back seat can be a real shocker. I'm telling you, this was definitely not what Jason’s sister expected to see.
Six things happened in real quick succession. One: My jaw drops, allowing a small scream to eke out. Two: I let go of the wheel. Three: My foot slips off the brake, just like that, and hits the gas pedal. Four: The Malibu pretty much jumps off the shoulder and takes a header down an embankment, durn it. Five: Bon Temps' famed telepath sees stars.
Last but not least, there were now two unconscious blondes in my car, and somewhere out there, Miss Scarlett crossed worrying about the Malibu’s paint job off her to-do list, freeing up some time to think about how very right-on she was with her prediction that someday (today?) those damned Supes just might be the death of her.
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Chapter 3: The Word of the Day is RETROSPECTIVE
- Of, relating to, or given to retrospection; Based on memory.
- Affecting things past.
So, you must be wondering, just how does a barmaid from Bon Temps, Louisiana end up unconscious in a ditch along a highway in the Missouri Ozarks with a similarly knocked-out naked blonde in the back seat?
Please understand that the details are a tad fuzzy around the edges right at the moment. If you bear with me, I'll do my best to piece it together for both of us.
You know me well enough to suspect that there must be a vampire or three ...and maybe even a shifter or a were-something or other...hidden somewhere in the woodpile of these events. That’s just a given. Then of course, there’s Jason, my completely self-absorbed brother whose fly should be as zipped up as his brain is closed off. They’re all as hard-headed as the logs in that woodpile and just about as smart as one, too, when they get into one of their “mine’s bigger than yours” pissing contests. You must have seen it before with human guys: everytime a Gracious Plenty switches “on,” a brain switches “off.” It’s worse with vampires, given the gracious dimensions of the plenties in question. What they all needed was a good dose of temporary erectile dysfunction, but that's just about as likely as Sookie Stackhouse becoming a nun.
Have you ever felt that you just had to get out of Dodge and the constant showdowns at the OK Corral? I've felt that way a lot lately, but I’m not in the habit of actually fleeing town. This time was different, though. After a particularly nasty scene between Bill and Eric in my back yard one night a few days ago, I knew that this disturbing shit wouldn’t...couldn’t...ever stop as long as I was around. Besides, those guys had both gone and stomped on my last nerve.
Can you imagine what it takes to tire out two bloodlust- and testosterone-fueled vamps? Believe me, it takes a lot…more uprooted trees than I could count, a completely trashed rose garden, a shed reduced to a pile of assorted-size splinters, parts of a lawn mower scattered across two acres.
And that’s just outdoors. Before I rescinded their invitations and moved the battle from the house to the yard…. Let me put it to you like this: I don’t know who's responsible for tossing my microwave (and the popcorn inside of it) out the kitchen window, or which one ripped out the plumbing fixtures, but I do know it wasn’t me. Chips and chunks of white porcelain that had been a brand-spanking-new American Standard “Champ” power-flush elongated-bowl commode...a birthday gift from Jason... littered the bathroom, hallway and living room floors. Shit. As always, it all happened so fast it made my head spin. At least I wouldn’t have to replace the front door again, but they would have managed to get that, too, if I hadn’t I opened it just in time.
When it was over, the Terrible Two sat there on the steps of my front porch in that creepy silent way I had been seeing way too much of lately. There was none of the heavy breathing you’d expect to hear from real guys after that kind of exertion. They had taken out the pole that my security light had been mounted on only minutes ago, so the yard was now pretty dark, but that eerie vamp glow illuminated their skin like they were fireflies stuck in the “on” position, just bright enough for me to see them looking ever so slightly sheepish.
I had seen it all before; their routine rarely varied. It starts with something ridiculous. This time, they couldn't agree on which movie we were going to watch...Buffy or Shaun of the Dead. While I'm heating up Truebloods for them and making popcorn for me, they started to get all fang-y. Then they begin to circle each other, and even from the kitchen I could hear the tell-tale low growls that always make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Then watch out, honey, it's too late to step in and suggest An American Werewolf in Paris as a compromise. Faster than you can say Holy Shepherd of Judea, a pair of vamp twisters were leaving a trail of incredible damage in the space of less than a minute.
True to form, Bill and Eric thought they could just make it all okay by hanging their heads like a pair of endearingly naughty little boys.
Endearing? Naughty? My hindquarters!
In the Supe world, being a vamp apparently means never having to actually say you’re sorry, yet I could always count on them to send someone the next day to repair the damage while they slept it off, just as I could count on them to do it all again the next time the mood strikes, which is pretty often. Like bartenders at Fangtasia, my lawn mowers don’t last very long; the one they had just demolished was my third mower in the space of less than a year, but I knew that a brand new one of the exact same model would be sitting in the yard the next day, as if it had been there all along. For all I know, they're buying them in bulk at the Sam’s Club in Shreveport.
Had Bill and Eric actually been naughty little boys, I would have sent them to opposite corners of a room for a “time out,” just like the child psychologists recommend. When you’re dealing with vamps, though, opposite corners of the world would be more like it. Not having that kind of space…Bon Temps is teensy-weensy even as small towns go, and my yard's even more tiny…I decided that it would be more practical to give Sookie a time-out somewhere (anywhere!), just as far away as the Malibu could take me.
Without saying a word, I stepped over a gnarled up something or other that looked like it might have once been the chaise lounge I use…excuse me, used…for sunbathing, passed between the two glow worms where they both sat on the front steps, then walked through the open doorway with all the dignity an indignant bar maid can possibly muster. Viking and computer geek probably didn’t realize that I saw them through the window as they turned to each other and shared a high-five, just like a pair of good ole boys. Real old good ole boys.
I felt more than a little fang-y myself as I pulled a small carry-on out of the closet, throwing into it what I would need for three or so days away from home. By the time I walked back down the steps and tossed the bag into the trunk of the car, Bill and Eric had disappeared and the yard was already looking a bit more tidy.
As I turned the car around to head down the driveway to Hummingbird Lane, its headlights illuminated the wreckage of what had been Gran’s lovingly-tended flower garden; the “Anne Boleyn” old English rose bush, her favorite, lay crushed and broken beneath a twisted patio umbrella and other less-recognizable debris. I hit the brakes and stared at the tangled mess. Now, when compared to the other damage, the loss of some pink roses may seem a small thing to you, but I know my last straw when I see it. As Gran used to say, itjustflewalloverme. I thumped the steering wheel with my fists, hard, then sat there and wailed.
How many times had I suggested that if they needed to tear something up, why not at least make themselves useful by pulling some weeds? But do they listen? Noooo, of course not. They’ve just gotta be big ole rose bush-crushing, microwave tossing, chaise lounge-shredding, lawn mower-destroying, commode-busting vampires.
After allowing myself an itsy-bitsy pity party, I was more than ready to get the heck out of there and head over to Merlotte’s. I needed to talk with my boss and arrange for time off before deciding where to go for my time-out. Maybe Sam could point me in the right direction, to somewhere I might be able to find a few days of peace and quiet.
These guys, they're just scaring me to death. That high-five? They were well-aware, of course, that I was watching. By this time, I've seen enough dysfunctional vamp behavior to realize that their fake camaraderie is just a way to make light of, for my benefit, an escalating dispute that they had to know would end badly. There's just too much wood involved for this to be a vamped-up version of "boys will be boys." I'm just a telepathic barmaid, but it doesn't take a psychic to see what's coming. One day pretty soon I'm afraid one or the other...or both...will end up 'accidentally' staked by a flying tree branch or a shard of splintered shed, or, like Anne Boleyn, someone's head is literally gonna roll.
This would all be so much easier if I could bring myself to hate them, or to at least not care. Try as we might, Stackhouse women have never been able to manage that.
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Chapter 4: The Word of The Day is EUPHEMISM
The substitution of an agreeable or inoffensive expression for one that may offend or suggest something unpleasant.
I intended to duck into Sam’s office, talk to him about time off for my “time out,” and then pick his brain for a destination recommendation or two, so I tried to slip in through the employee entrance in the back of the bar. This was no time to all of a sudden become the most popular girl in the room, but that’s the way things shaped up right off. Of course. There at the bar, next to the office door, sat Jason and Hoyt, with Pam perched on the stool between them.
Pam? Here just ‘hanging out’ with the guys? I didn’t think so.
“Hey, Sis,” Jason called out. “We was just talkin’ about you!” Hoyt broke into a good-natured, uncomplicated smile as he lifted a bottle of Bud in salute, and Pam greeted me with slightly narrowed eyes and one arched brow, her thoroughly ironic signature look.
Behind the bar, Terry Bellefleur ducked his chin and didn't meet my eyes as he spoke in his usual monotone. “Sorry to hear about what happened out at your place tonight.” His voice dropped as he added, “...again.”
So they know already?
Pam.
“Yeah, Sookie.” My attention turned to a booth across the room, where Detective Andy Bellefleur, Terry’s second cousin, sat alone. The man was clearly inebriated (not a calendar word…just barmaids’ professional jargon). “You want me to come out there in the morning and make a report this time?”
I had known Andy long enough to wait for him to plunge right in and answer his own question, and he didn't disappoint.
“No? That’s okay by me. Evidence’ll all be gone by then anyway, so there’s not much point, is there. Besides, we all know who did it, and we still ain’t got vampire-proof detention facilities, so…”
I didn’t catch the rest as he looked down into his nearly empty glass, so I let down my shields to listen. I picked up on Andy's frustration over the inadequate state of the Bon Temps jail, as well as a befuddled realization that he had lost track of how many drinks he had already put away. Someone was going to have to make sure that he didn't get behind the wheel.
Still avoiding eye contact, Terry dangled his cousin’s car keys in my direction, letting me know that he had the situation covered. Bon Temps' Finest wouldn’t be driving himself home tonight.
I scanned the rest of the bar. “Where’s Sam?” I asked, and learned that he, too, had heard what happened and headed out to my house because he was worried when he couldn’t reach me by phone.
Trust Pam to jump right in. “Sookie, my Master and Compton send you assurances that your property will be restored to its former condition by sunset tomorrow. When they rise for the night, they will call upon you to inspect the repairs made necessary by tonight’s…indiscretion.”
Did you catch that linguistic tap dance around the issue of responsibility? The indiscretion (her carefully chosen euphemism for wanton destruction) was “tonight’s” fault and not “their” doing after all.
Imagine that.
“They can go ahead and do whatever they want, but I won’t be there,” I sighed and was met with another lifted brow. This was not what Pam had expected to hear.
“And where shall I tell them you can be found?”
“You can’t. I don’t even know where I’ll be, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell them.” Or you. I could lift a brow, too.
“Very well.” She turned abruptly on her heel and walked at a casual, un-vampiric pace toward the door, adding a bit of seductive hip attitude for Jason’s entertainment, I’m sure.
I try real hard to stay out of my brother's head...there are things I just don't want to know...but I didn't have to let my shields down to know what Jason was imagining while he watched her backside disappear out the door. He managed to pull his eyes back into his head, then turned his attention back to me.
“What’s up, Sook? Where you gonna be?”
I’m not in the habit of unloading my unhappiness on my brother…given that it tends to just bounce right off that hard, pointy head of his…but he did ask, so I 'shared.'
For a change, Jason actually paid close attention to what I was saying, and he erupted in anger.
His fist banged the bar hard enough to rattle the glassware. “Goddamn it, Sookie! That just ain’t right. What’ve I been telling you ‘bout those bloodsuckers? An’ now you gotta leave town so they don’t start tearing you apart, too?”
Too late, I thought. They already have.
Jason can be pretty generous with unsolicited advice.
“You need to get out of town, fast...like right NOW. You got your shit with you, Sook?”
I assumed he was referring to the things I would need to take with me. “Yes, I packed a bag; it’s in the car.”
“You oughta get in that car and drive yourself to where Hoyt and I went last summer. That place, it's fuckin' amazing! They got everything there…fishing, hunting, good food…you name it. I’d go with you if I could leave town now.”
“Whaddya say, Sis?” He paused and looked at me as if I would somehow know where they had gone.
I had no idea, of course, but it did sound like this place might be quiet enough, even if I'm not 'into' hunting and fishing. “About where, Jason?”
"Don't kid around. Come on, you know I'm talkin' about Bass Pro Shop!” From the look on his face, he could have just as well said, "I just won the Super Bowl and I'm going to Disney World!"
My shields were still up, so I really hadn't seen that one coming.
“Bass Pro? You want me to go to Baton Rouge? Or do you mean the one in Bossier City?”
“No, no, no.” He paused, then took a deep breath, as if preparing to say something momentous. “I’m talking about The Big One, Sook. The one in Springfield…Missouri, you know? It’s like the…the Holy Grail for guys like us. Right, Hoyt?”
“Sure 'nuff, Jason...the 'Holy Quail'...it's there alright. They got some ducks without holes in 'em, too."
He sent another lovely, uncomplicated smile in my direction. Hoyt is a rare breed; the more he drinks, the sweeter he gets, and he was just chock-full of Karo syrup tonight. The professional barmaid in me hoped that someone had snagged his keys, too.
I turned towards Terry, who nodded and held up a rabbit's foot key ring.
Now I didn’t believe for a second that Jason or Hoyt had read The DaVinci Code or had even seen the movie. They had no idea what the Holy Grail ("Quail"?) was, much less where it could be found. I had no intention of spending my time off at a sporting goods store, but he was making an effort to help, so I made an effort to listen politely.
“Sounds [ahem!] interesting, Jason, thanks. Where did you and Hoyt stay while you were there?”
“We was hopin' to spend the night right there but they made us leave at closing time, so we got us a room in Branson, 'bout 45 minutes south. You could go stay there, I guess. They’ve got a few motels, and the one we stayed in was clean enough but it sure weren't no Bass Pro. And say…” His eyes lit up. “As long as you’re going, I sure could use your help. That Loomis fishing rod I bought when we was up there? Some bastard stole it right out of my truck a while back...so maybe you could pick up another one for me, huh? I mean, as long as you're already goin' to be there?”
He patted his back pocket. “Look, I don’t have enough cash on me, but you could get it and I could pay you for it when you get home, right?” Jason wrote the model number on a cocktail napkin, pushed it in my direction, and grinned at me like it was a done deal.
“Thanks, Sis. I’ll see you when you get back. You go ahead and bring that rod over to my place, okay?” After a pat to my shoulder, he turned away and I watched as he and Hoyt ambled toward the door. He called back over his shoulder. “Be real careful, now…make sure you get the right model. And while you're there, you might as well bring me back a gimme cap.”
Once again, Jason had somehow managed to turn a conversation about my problems around to his benefit.
Sooooo, it looked like I was going to be heading off to Bass Pro by way of Branson. Try as I might, I simply couldn’t think of any reason why I shouldn’t take up his suggestion. It was as if I had been glamoured by a blood-sucking vampire.
I left Sam a note about the time off I would be needing; we could discuss it on the phone later. I might as well get started, so I waved good-bye to Terry, and headed out the back door.
Bye-bye, Bon Temps...Good riddance, vamps, for a few days at least.
Or so I thought.
I stepped out onto the parking lot and there was Pam, leaning against my car, her arms folded across her chest. She tilted her head to one side and gave me "that look."
“Hello again, Girlfriend. Mind if I catch a ride with you?" she asked, then answered her own question. "Of course not. GET IN.”
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Chapter 5: The Word of the Day is EVANESCENCE
The process or fact of vanishing like vapor.
“I will drive.” Pam was using her She Who Must Be Obeyed voice.
Well, isn’t this just great. Just what I didn’t need…the perfect ending for a perfectly awful day in the life of Sookie Stackhouse, barmaid. Just what did I have to do to get away from these vamps? If I had enough fae blood in me to ‘blip’ out like Claudine, this would have been the perfect moment to do it.
Pam opened the passenger door, the expression on her face unreadable as I climbed in. She slammed it behind me, then in a vamp-flash she was in the drivers’ seat.
“Pam…” I started.
“Shut up, Sookie, and be sensible for a change. Do you really think there is anyway I would allow you to leave alone? Unprotected?”
People had been answering their own questions all evening, so I thought I’d give her a go at this one, too. It was, after all, a no-brainer.
“if something happens to you and he finds out that I knew what you were planning, my master will make me rue the day I was turned and then take great pleasure in staking me. And Compton? He will be inconsolable, and why would we want to turn him into an even more sentimental pain in the ass than he is already?”
She held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “The keys. Hand them over. NOW.”
“But…”
“But nothing, girlfriend. Besides, what makes you think that you are the only one who happens to be dead tired of everything that has been ricocheting around inside of that little love triangle of yours? You and I both know how this will no doubt end. There is just too much…”
“…wood involved,” I finished for her. “I know.” I dropped my keychain into her outstretched hand.
“As I was saying, there is just too much drama for my taste. I find your antics childish and exhausting, and there’s just one cure for that type of fatigue.” The uplifted brow was the same as ever, but the smile looked suspiciously un-Pam-like.
“Which is…?” As I said, I can lift a brow, too, when necessary.
“A road trip, of course! Think about it, Sookie. Branson abounds with outlet malls, and there are factory outlet stores as far as the eye can see. Bargains here, bargains there, bargains everywhere you look!”
“Do you like shoes? We could go shoe shopping! They even have a place that calls itself ‘Supermarket of Shoes.’ And sweaters. I so need new sweaters, don’t you?" She poked me with her elbow, winked and whispered, "Think about it...cashmere that even a barmaid can afford.”
She was getting positively giddy. “Do you need purses? Belts? Scarves? How does Liz Claiborne sound to you? Ann Taylor? Jones New York? The Gap? We can shop them all while we’re there.”
“ ‘Pam and Sookie hit the outlet mall, A thousand stores and they shopped them all.’ Oh, I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it!” She laughed at at her own silliness and I could see that her fangs were down. “And textiles…oh my goddess! High-threadcount sheets, fluffy Egyptian cotton towels…at fabulous discounts! Even Ralph Lauren!”
Pam made just talking about outlet shopping some sort of orgasmic experience...a kinky one, at that. Under the parking lot lights, I swear it looked as though her eyes were spinning like pinwheels. “And then there’s…”
I held my hand up. “Stop, already! You had me at shoes!”
“So we’re on?” She giggled. Giggling? Silly rhymes? Pam? Where was the Pam we all know and…know?
Actually, I’d like to know this particular Pam better. “Shop-till-we-drop therapy it is,” I laughed. “What are we waiting for? Let’s roll!”
With that, Pam, the Malibu, and I roared off Merlotte’s parking lot on our way to Branson, the Bargain Basement of the Ozarks. And as far as anyone knew, Pamela Ravenscroft and Sookie Stackhouse had just evanesced into thin air.
First we needed to stop at Pam’s house in Shreveport so she could pack a bag. We were no more than five miles or so down the road before I woke up to reality and the impracticalities of road-tripping with a vampire hit me.
“Pam, where are you going to…I mean, what will you do when the sun comes up? And where will we stay in Branson? Do they even have vamp-safe rooms?” I didn’t mention that I couldn’t afford to do any shopping (bargain or not) just now. “Maybe we should go back and think this over before we…”
“Before what, Sookie? And give you a chance to…how do they say it these days…chicken out? I think not. Dear Abby says that…”
She launched into a rather long-winded account of the collected wisdom of newspaper advice columnists, and I’m pretty sure my eyes were rolling back in my head by the time Pam got around to addressing the issues closer at hand. She informed me that she had already made a few phone calls to make arrangements. With the way she drove, we would reach Little Rock well before dawn; we would spend the daylight hours with a vamp friend of Pam’s who had an extra hidey-hole for her and a bed for me. After sunset, we would set out for Branson, where she had already reserved a room for us at the only vamp-safe motel in town.
And just how did Pam know that I had agreed to (or at least hadn’t disagreed with) Jason’s suggestion that I make Branson my destination? If she had lingered outside the door after leaving Merlotte’s, her super-acute vamp hearing would have made it an easy matter to eavesdrop on my conversation with Jason. That was another no-brainer, of course, and I’m pretty sure you could have figured that out on your own. What I didn’t know was whether she would keep our destination a secret from the Naughty Boys. Had one of her calls been to her ‘master’?
Come on, be honest with me now. Would you have trusted her?
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Chapter 6 The Word of the Day is RENAISSANCE
- A movement or period of vigorous artistic and intellectual activity.
- Rebirth, revival.
It was all l could do to keep from gagging. “Ugh, Pam. This place is like totally filthy!”
“Yes. What a dump.” Pam could impersonate Bette Davis? I would have pegged her as a Lauren Bacall.
Her nose wrinkled in extreme distaste. At that moment I was very grateful that I did not have a vamp’s sensitive sense of smell and would be spared at least this particular indignity.
What a downer. Up until the time we arrived at this run-down fleabag motel, we had been having an unbelievably fantastic time. I had been well on my way to leaving the stress of my life behind, for a few days at least.
On the road, we shared confidences and laughed like a pair of silly school girls. I learned things I would have never, ever guessed about my new ‘friend.’ For instance, would you have been as surprised as I was to find out that she has more degrees than a thermometer?
That's right. It seems that our Pamela practically invented night school. She started out with a degree in British Literature, a natural choice for someone who had seen many of Shakespeare’s plays when they were first staged. In fact, when Pam’s father was grooming her for the marriage market, he had even commissioned the great poet to write a sonnet or two that extolled her grace and beauty. Later she studied history, another good choice for a vamp who had lived through hundreds of years of it. At some point she took a turn toward more aesthetic pursuits, with degrees in art history, architecture, and design, both interior and fashion.
Pam had, in fact, designed and decorated first her own home, then Eric’s, as well as those of some quite prominent vampires around the world. She knows exactly what features vamps want and need, and is said to be quite ingenious in disguising their day rooms. Pam’s clients could trust her to never reveal these secret locations, and she glamoured everyone else involved in the project so they couldn’t either.
At some point, her interests took yet another turn, this time toward business, with degrees in accounting, management, and fashion merchandising (that one, she told me, was “just for fun”). After she designed Fangtasia’s interior, Eric tapped her to stay and help him run the club. Pam had just recently completed her thesis for an MBA, but she told me that she was “finished” with studying business and ready to move on to more ‘humanistic’ pursuits, like counseling. She sees herself spending a decade or two as the supe world’s Dear Abby ("Dear Pammy"?) before she becomes bored and moves on to something else.
“Perhaps law,” she told me, baring her fangs. “I’d fit right in, don’t you think?”
I had to agree, but don't assume that I share the popular view that lawyers are bloodsuckers. Everyone accused of a crime deserves an attorney who is ready, willing and able to fight like a biting dog in their defense. Wouldn’t you want someone exactly like her on your side if you found yourself in a legal mess? For example, Pam the attorney would know just who to sue or totally intimidate (or bite!) over the situation we now found ourselves in.
A Renaissance Vamp and a (just barely) high school grad telepathic barmaid. What an odd couple my roomie and I made, standing here in the middle of this appallingly poor excuse for a public accommodation.
Pam closed her eyes and the expression on her face looked much like I imagine mine must when I am tuning in to someone’s thoughts. She nodded and shot a reassuring smile in my direction. “All is not lost, Girlfriend. This room may not meet our standards, but it does have a decent Wi-Fi signal.”
She saw the question on my face. “Yes, my brain can detect Wi-Fi … one of my ‘talents,’ as you would say.” She tapped her forehead. “That and a photographic memory. Both can be quite useful on occasion.”
Pam opened her suitcase and pulled out a MacBook Pro laptop. I watched over her shoulder as she googled "all-night mortuaries in Branson MO."
“Mortuaries, Pam? You’re going to check us into a funeral home?”
I slapped my forehead and began pacing the dirty shag carpet. No, no, NO. This was just way too bizarre, even for Sookie Stackhouse. I knew for fact that the funeral home in Bon Temps didn’t have a pool or sauna. And there was no coffee shop, either, no room service, no complimentary continental breakfast, or in-room microwaves or refrigerators...not even HBO...and I felt pretty certain that the mortuaries in Branson didn’t feature these amenities either.
"So tell me...this would be improving our situation how???"
She looked up from the computer screen and smiled. “It is only 2:00 a.m., Sookie. I believe we have sufficient time to improvise a satisfactory alternative before daylight.”
Pam’s expression said relax, everything’s going to be just fine, but my own instincts were screaming like crazy that this was going to be yet another one of those times when putting myself in a vamp’s hands might not be such a great idea.
Yeah, yeah, I know. No offense, but smarter people than you have already told me that I have ‘trust issues.’
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Chapter 7: The Word(s) of the Day is (are) ENTREPRENEURIAL NECROMANCY
They (and you, too, I guess) are right, no argument there. Trust IS something I’ve got to work on, so I’ll add it to my list, if that makes you feel any better. For the time being, though, you’d best get real…this is not something that’s gonna to happen overnight.
Not that night anyway. We had to get Pam and a decent ‘travel box’ (that’s what vamps call their coffins/homes away from home) into a fairly light-tight room that’s also decent enough for me.
Not that I’m all that picky-picky, but Gran brought me up to be a lady and I do have pretty high standards. Things like clean sheets and toilets that actually flush really do mean something to me, and I’ll take my tub and shower without the mold and mildew, thank you very much. I like sharing space with surfaces that I’m not afraid to touch. Not to mention that this room was just crying out for some serious redecoration. I didn’t need Pam The Interior Designer to tell me that shag carpet of indeterminate color matted with wads of chewing gum has been out of style for some time now.
Pam clicked on one of the search results and scanned a website.
“Got it!” She whipped her phone out of her purse and tapped a number into it.
Before you could say it’s always darkest before the dawn, Pam had negotiated delivery of a coffin to the motel room of her choice. All we had to do was actually choose one anywhere but where we were at the moment, which shouldn’t be too terribly difficult.
I had gotten the impression from Jason that Branson had just one motel, but we must have driven past a hundred of them before ending up at this dump. Many of those places looked pretty nice, too. It was almost like someone had taken the oldest, most run-down motel in town, and instead of doing the right thing by tearing it down, they hung light-blocking drapes on the windows and declared it “vamp-safe.”
This place made me think of Gran’s stories about how things were before I was born, with “separate-but-equal” facilities…restaurants, motels, schools…for blacks and whites. People existed together in the same town that wasn’t really the same place after all, like living in parallel universes that happened to intersect at that point on the map. Living and dying…even the funeral homes and cemeteries were separate. The way Gran explained it, the problem was not so much the ‘separate’ part (aside from the bald-faced truth that it just wasn’t the right thing to do)…it was the fact that ‘equal’ was really anything but.
By the time I came along, there was only one elementary and one high school in Bon Temps, with all the kids in town trying their best to learn in the same under-funded facilities, and now everyone can pretty much eat in the same restaurants if that’s what they want to do. Sure, Sam would like to have more black customers at Merlotte’s, but I can’t imagine that many of our black neighbors are all that excited about spending their hard-earned money and their Saturday nights rubbing elbows with a bunch of loud red-necks who have been drinking. Since we’ve still got separate funeral homes and I don’t see any whites choosing to be buried in the same cemeteries as blacks (and vice-versa), I guess that in Bon Temps at least, even death fails to live up to its billing as The Great Equalizer.
Even though they’re technically out of the coffin now, it looks to me like much of the rest of the world would like to keep vampires segregated in one of those parallel universes, too. Somehow, just because vamps are technically dead, some people think they would settle for ‘separate but equal’ places like The Ozarks Magic Motor-Hotel, the rat hole we were in the process of digging ourselves out of. In fact, the vamps I know would rather dig their way out of a hole in the ground every night than even set foot in a place like this. Come to think of it, a hole in the ground might actually be a cleaner place to sleep.
And that’s where these folks in Branson have got it all wrong. Vamps are, in general, wealthier than the average living and breathing American (just think about how much money you could sock away in your 401-K over a period of a few hundred years or so!). They demand and are willing to pay for the best their money can buy, and they really, really don’t like being taken advantage of. You can count on it…if anyone’s going to do some blood-sucking, it’s gonna be them, but I know from experience that they tip well for good service. Other touristy places, like Las Vegas, New Orleans, and a bunch of all-inclusive resorts figured that out pretty quick. Heck, there’s even a high-end cruise line that caters to vamps. (No, I’m not kidding…I saw it on the Travel Channel!) If businesses in Branson want a piece of that pie, they’re not going to get it with dumps like The Ozarks Magic, and you sure don’t have to be telepathic to hear opportunity knocking…beating…on that door.
And then there’s the weres, the shifters and the other supes who (for the most part) look and act ‘normal.’ Normal…now there’s a word that’s staring re-definition right smack in the face these days. Under a full moon, they may run in a parallel universe, but most of the time they manage to fly under our radar without even having to try very hard, so their separate actually ends up looking pretty darned equal. I know from my own personal experience, though, that it’s practically impossible to really relax and have fun when you can’t be yourself, and I haven’t seen any place that offers them a vacation experience with the kind of privacy that would make it possible for them to literally let their hair down (!) and enjoy themselves the way they’d like.
Now all Pam and I needed was a place where we could do exactly that.
She looked up from the laptop and asked, “How would you like to stay in the Presidential Suite at the Radisson?”
The Pope is still Catholic, right?
There’s practically no traffic in Branson at that time of night, so we were checking into our new ninth-floor concierge-level digs in no time flat. The Presidential Suite had a living room with a sleeper sofa and half-bath, a kitchenette with refrigerator and microwave, and the bathroom off the separate bedroom had a huge walk-in shower and whirlpool tub. The toilets were fully functional (after the Ozarks Magic debacle, I made it a point to check), the carpet was clean, and, just as importantly, it was not like any funeral home I’ve ever seen.
We had a special room key to access this floor by elevator, and the door locks appeared to be state-of-the-art. Pam inspected the window coverings, pronounced them acceptable, and called her contact at the mortuary to tell them where to deliver her coffin. While we waited for it to arrive, we checked out the king-sized bed’s mattress, the kind you see on those infomercials…you know, the one you can adjust to get just the right level of firmness? Pam and I had some fun playing with the controls, trying out every level from super soft to practically rock-hard firm.
By the time the coffin was installed in the living room, the clock said 4:00 a.m. and we were both ready to go to our rest, but not before we made plans. Pam and I decided that I’d catch a few hours of sleep, find someplace to have brunch, pick up some True Bloods and other stuff to stock the fridge, have a look around town and eat dinner. Then, after dark, Pam and I would do some serious damage at the outlet malls.
It would have been fun, I’m sure, if any of it had actually happened the way we planned. But that would have been ’way too easy, and where’s the story in that, my friend?
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Chapter 8: The Word of the Day is LODESTONE
- Magnetite possessing polarity.
- Something that strongly attracts.
And since I consider you a friend, I’m giving fair warning. Hold on to your hat, ’cause this is where things start getting a little weird.
Weird. That’s another word that my universe has been in the process of redefining. It’s relative, of course, the yardstick that I evaluate people, things, and events against, and it’s changing day by day. Used to be that on my days off my Weird-O-Meter would register only a tiny millimeter or so of movement, then on a work day it could pop a significant spike or two, depending on who walked into Merlotte’s. And then there are days like the one in question, where the needle takes a quantum leap forward into the red zone and gets stuck there.
I blame myself. And Jason, maybe.
The trouble started when I overslept and missed brunch, so I had lunch instead. A fine distinction, but if you’re thinking that it wouldn’t make much difference, you’d be dead wrong.
This teensy change pushed everything else in the schedule down the line. Because I had eaten late, I had less time to look around Branson after picking up supplies. However, eating a little later also made the idea of dinner before dark seemed kinda unappealing, so it got bumped clear off the list, which meant that I actually had more time to poke around town, but with the weather being so pretty and all, why would I want to stay in town when I could take a drive and see some of the Ozarks, which meant that it would be a great day to head up the highway to Bass Pro in Springfield to pick up Jason’s fishing rod and still get back to the suite by dark for our shopping expedition. Did you manage to follow all that? I’m pretty sure there’s some thread of logic somewhere in that tangled up string of reasoning.
Whatever. Who has time to look all that closely? If it matters so much to you, put it on your to-do list, ‘cause we’ve got a story to get back to.
I stashed the True Bloods, a few bottles of ginger ale and a carton of OJ in the refrigerator, stowed away the microwave popcorn, checked on Pam real quick, then wasted no time hitting the highway. My map showed Springfield as being only 40 miles or so north of Branson, four-lane divided all the way. A piece of cake. I’d have plenty of time to get Jason his “G. Loomis GLX Spinning Bass Rod 7’1” M” and, of course, the gimme cap.
The map had me heading north on highway 65 most of the way, then west on 60, the James River Freeway that skirts Springfield’s south side, to Campbell Avenue. Sounds simple enough, right? So how in the heck did I end up getting off the highway too soon at the Glenstone exit? You know, where I first laid eyes on Miss Big Bunny? It’s not like I’d have to be a rocket scientist or anything to find something as big as Bass Pro. Had I been born under an evil star? Cursed by a witch? Was it simply good old-fashioned bad luck? Or Fate, perhaps?
We’ve been acquainted with each other long enough for you to know what a supe-magnet I’ve become. Given that attraction, it’s more than likely that Miss Bunny and I were drawn to each other like iron to a magnet. Maybe I never had much chance to avoid her. Maybe I was powerless to resist the pull of the turn that brought me to her.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. We may never uncover why I exited the highway at Glenstone, or the real reason why I would offer a ride to a huge bunny who was thumbing it, when Gran had warned me time and time again to never, everpick up a hitchhiker. Have you considered the possibility that maybe just maybe there’s nothing to know? Let's stick with what we do know.
Fact: I did exit the highway too soon.
Fact: I did pick up an unnaturally large white rabbit hitchhiker.
Fact: While it was totally unintentional, I did knock her out.
Fact: I did run the Malibu into a ditch.
Fact: Our Bunny is not a full-time rabbit.
Fact: She's definitely not a natural blonde either.
The last time I mentioned any of this, I was as knocked out as Bunny was. I don’t know how long she and I were there before Rat and Prick caught up with us, but I remember coming to hearing them arguing with each other about how they were going to get us “there,” wherever that was. Everything looked pretty fuzzy at that point, but I do remember hearing Bunny whimper and moan from the back seat of the car. Prick was on top of her, grunting and…whatever. Given his…uh, size…I don’t see how what I imagined he was doing to her could even be possible, but I’m telling you that it sure sounded like something untoward was going on, on my Malibu's back seat, yet. And I’ll never forget how it felt to be hauled out of the front seat by my ponytail and dumped like a sack of Yukon Gold potatoes on the ground next to the car. These guys had a lot to learn about how to treat a lady…ladies. I'd like to give our Bunny the benefit of the doubt, if that's okay with you.
I took in a real deep breath. Was I winding up to let loose with a world-class scream, or was I about to give these guys a good dressing down? Sorry, I just don’t remember, 'cause that's when everything went black again.
Memo to myself: Damn it all to hell, Sookie...it's time to re-upholster.
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Chapter 9: The Word of the Day is COSMETOLOGY
The cosmetic treatment of the hair, skin, nails...and lips.
Shepherd of Judea, the light…it made my head hurt like a sonofabitch.
So I waited, and then waited some more, afraid to open my eyes, afraid to open myself to the pain again. Take your time, Sookie, deep breaths, I told myself. When I finally got up the nerve to try again, the light wasn’t so awfully, desperately painful any more, just super-darned uncomfortable. But you know that I have handled much worse.
It was time to open up and focus.
The room looked to be pretty spacious and simply furnished with the queen-sized bed I was on, two end tables and a pair of rocking chairs in front of a real large window; its sheer lace curtains were pulled back so they didn’t cover up an absolutely stunning view of tree-covered rolling hills, with rocky outcroppings scattered here and there. If there was anything else out there, it was hidden under that canopy of trees.
I counted three doors and hoped that one opened to a bathroom. Pretty soon I was going to really need one, but I wasn’t ready to actually move around and check it out just yet.
I had never been in a place with walls like these. Logs. I was in a log cabin?
The place smelled clean and fresh, and the more I looked around, the more I liked what I was seeing. I recognized the pattern of the quilt on the bed I was sprawled out on… “Log Cabin”…but my head just wasn’t up to appreciating the irony right at that moment. Something else to add to my to-do list. Cushions tied onto the rocking chairs near the window matched one of the fabrics in the quilt. The lodge-style bed and end tables impressed me as being comfortably rustic, and just about the sweetest rag rug I had ever seen (handmade, I’m pretty sure) covered the center of the wooden plank floor. Lovely.
I eased myself off the bed and stood upright as slowly and smoothly as possible. My head and I had just made peace with each other and I wanted to uphold my side of the truce by getting to the bathroom and back without causing any more pain than absolutely necessary.
The first door was locked…not a good sign. I opened the second one and came face-to-face with a pretty decent-sized closet. The big prize was behind door number three, which opened to a bathroom that was at least as large as the bedroom and closet combined. Another rag rug just as pretty as the one in the bedroom covered the floor in front of an oversized claw-foot bathtub (a new and improved version of the old-fashioned type), that sat right in front of a large garden window also framed by lace curtains. Two dressers that looked like they were made from old barn wood flanked a pedestal sink. An antique milk pitcher on one of them held Black-Eyed Susans (one of my favorites), some Queen Anne’s Lace and a few other types of real pretty wildflowers. The commode? Not nearly as impressive as my brand new American Standard “Champ” at home, which I trust my vamps had replaced by now. It didn’t have an elongated bowl, either, but, like everything else in this place, it was spotlessly clean. And it flushed…ta-dah!...and that’s all I cared about at the moment.
My immediate need taken care of, I turned to the sink, washed my hands, splashed some water on my face, and reached for one of the towels stacked on the other dresser. As I patted my face dry, a look in the mirror revealed a small cut (not much more than a deep scratch, really) above my left eyebrow and a deep purple bruise blooming on one cheek. I was in bad need of a hairbrush, and I seriously, desperately needed to re-apply lip gloss.
Gran once told me about the “the lipstick test,” and I imagine you must have heard about it, too. Let’s say that a woman has just gone through a hard time with childbirth, or has been real sick or injured…when she asks for her lipstick, you know she’s gonna be alright. So I guess I ‘passed’ the test, which meant that…despite running my car into a ditch, getting knocked unconscious, being yanked around by my ponytail and abducted by a potty-mouth rat and a humongous prick, and, I might add, having the mother-hugger of all headaches…I just might survive to see another day. But this wasn’t just a sign that I was going to be okay…I wasn’t going to BE okay without lip gloss.
My purse. Where was it? For the first time during this what I think you would agree was a kind of extraordinary day, I felt a real honest-to-gosh wave of panic coming on.
I need my purse! Damn it all to hell…where is it?
I looked around the room, checking out the closet, under the bed, even the drawers of the dressers in the bathroom…no purse. No lip gloss.
I am so fucked!
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Chapter 10: The Word of the Day is ANALOG
- Something that is analogous or similar to something else.
- An organ or part similar in function to an organ or part of another animal or plant but different in structure or origin.
I did find something, though. My cell phone was still where I left it, tucked into my bra. You know…where the cup and the shoulder strap come together?
Go ahead, laugh, but then tell me this…what’s a girl supposed to do when she doesn’t have a pocket to carry her phone in? Clip it at the waist, like the guys do? If you’re not wearing a belt, the phone weighs down the waistband and rolls it around itself, and just ruins the lines of your outfit. Lug around a purse absolutely everywhere just to have a place to stash a phone? Come on. Why should we have to do that when we can just tuck it in, you know? Look, honey…if the Almighty has gifted you with enough to fill out that bra, it will exert enough outward pressure to hold a phone in place, and if you’ve got a real thin phone like mine, it doesn’t really show most of the time. A push-up bra actually works best. Problem solved.
Of course, when someone calls this does make it seem like one of your ‘Girls’ has its own ring tone. Or, if you set the phone to vibrate, like I do, people may look at you kinda funny, like you’re into something just a wee bit kinky, you know? But for Bill it’s a real power trip; he likes being able to (as he says) “set Sookie’s bosom a-quiver from afar” just by calling me. Bill can be sweet like that sometimes, in a old-fashioned/high-tech sort of way. Eric? He's 'way into telling people to "hold on a minute while I give Sookie a buzz." Kink.
Finding my cell phone still did not solve the lip gloss problem, but it was a start.
I wasn’t about to let a bunch of calls from Bill and Eric ruin my little vacation, so I had left the phone turned ‘off.’ I mean, I had to leave town because of them, so taking their calls would’ve been counterproductive, wouldn’t you say? I turned the phone back on, and since I didn’t have much of anything else to do at the moment, I listened to my voice mails. Just as I thought, most were from the Naughty Boys, demanding to know where I was. As far as I was concerned, they could wait a long time for return calls.
More than a few were from Sam, though.
Oops. I never had called him to arrange for my ‘time out/time off. After not finding me at my house on the night of the “indiscretion,” and with me not showing up for work and all, he sounded pretty frantic. I had to take care of this.
Sam answered on the first ring. “Cher, where the hell are you? Are you okay? I’ve been going out of my mind here worrying about you!”
I explained that I needed to get out of Dodge for a few days and apologized for going AWOL and forgetting to actually talk with him about re-arranging my work schedule. Sam said that he understood and wasn’t upset about me not showing up for work, but he needed to know that I was okay.
That's Sam for you. You know what they say...if you want someone sweet and loyal and protective who will always be there for you, get yourself a dog.
“Yeah, Sam, I’m just fine. Pam and I drove up to Branson to do a little shopping, that’s all. And everything was going just fine until I headed out to Bass Pro in Springfield to pick up a fishing rod for Jason. That’s when things got a little weird.”
I explained to him how I had picked up a large white rabbit hitchhiker, about being chased by Rat and Prick…you know, the Readers’ Digest condensed version of what you’ve already heard. After all, my cell plan doesn’t include unlimited minutes, so I didn’t have time to really get into the details, and my lips felt so awfully dry because of the lip gloss situation…
Sam got real quiet there for a moment and I thought I might have lost him. “Sam?” I said, “are you still there?”
“I’m here. First you say that you’re ‘just fine,’ but then you tell me that you’re seeing some really weird shit. Listen to me, Sookie. You’ve got to find a way to get out of there right now, do you hear me?”
“You’re telling me! I’m locked in a log cabin, I can't find my purse, and the sooner I can leave this place and get my hands on some lip gloss, the better.”
His voice took on a more urgent tone. “Lip gloss is the least of your problems right now, cher. It sounds like you’ve run into some analog shifters, and believe me, you do NOT want to mess with them.”
Analog shifters?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sam.”
He explained that I must be in either Analog Hole or Wysiwia, where two large inbred families of shifters had been living more than a hundred years, and that they were organized more like weres, in packs.
“Either because of the inbreeding or maybe a mutation or two somewhere along the line, these shifters are really different than the rest of us…so different that we make it a point to stay as far away from them as possible.”
“Why? Are they dangerous?”
“From what I’ve heard, they could be. But it’s not just that, Sook. Don’t you think it’s weird that you just happened to meet up with an impossibly large rabbit? That you were taken captive by an impossibly large penis and rat?”
Ya think?
“This is my world that we’re talking about here, Sam. My ‘weird’ hasn’t been the same as other people’s ‘weird’ for quite some time now.” I didn't feel in the mood to be agreeing with him, even though I knew he was right. “But okay, let’s say just for the sake of argument that it does seem a bit unusual.”
“Analog shifters take on the shape of what they’re behaving like at the moment, which can lead to some pretty…uh…interesting situations.”
“What do you mean?” It was going to take a while for me to wrap my mind around this.
“When you thought that what you call ‘Bunny’ was running like a scared rabbit, that’s exactly what she looked like to you, a human-sized rabbit.”
“So, a guy would look like a rat if he was behaving like one?”
“Right, and…”
“…and a guy who’s acting like a prick looks like a human-sized penis.” I just had to laugh. “I’m sorry, Sam, but this is kinda hard to believe!”
Sam cleared his throat. “Sookie, what’s more difficult for you to handle…that you’ve seen a giant rabbit, rat and penis, or the idea that there are people who can shift into a giant rabbit, rat and penis? Huh?”
Good point. Maybe this lip gloss deprivation was getting to me.
“Okay, let’s say that whatever…whoever…I’ve run across happen to be these ‘analog shifters.’ Just because they’re weird doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re dangerous, does it?”
Things that we don't understand are not automatically 'bad.' Sam, of all people, should know that.
“Of course not, but the Analogs have some other things that they’ll fight like hell to keep hidden, and being caught in the middle of a feud isn’t exactly safe, either. Like I said, you’ve got to get out of there ASAP, before you get caught in the cross-fire.”
“A feud? You mean like the Hatfields and the McCoys?”
“Sort of, but in this case it’s the Hedde family versus the Bunns. The Heddes live in Analog Hole and the Bunns have always been in Wysiwia.”
“Wissy-wee-ah?” What kind of name is that?
“Unusual but appropriate. It stands for ‘what you see is what I am.’”
Okay, at least that made sense.
“So which family do you think has me locked up here?” I needed to know just who had my lip gloss.
Sam paused. “My guess would be that it’s the Heddes up in Analog Hole that have got you. Their pack master has a real bad rep in the shifter community.”
“What makes you think that he’s involved?”
“Just putting two and two together, that’s all,” he said. “His name is Richard, so…”
It clicked into place in my brain right then, just like that.
So, the huge penis has a name.
Dick Hedde.
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Chapter 11: The Word of the Day is PARIAH
- A member of a low caste of Southern India.
- One that is despised or rejected; an outcast.
And then just like that I also knew what would get me out of there.
First I had a few more questions for Sam.
“Why do they stay so isolated?” I thought I might already know the answer to that one.
And I was right. “Well, hell, Sookie, if everyone could tell what you're really like just by looking at you, don’t you think that would affect your social life?”
“I guess so. Sure.” Just the suspicion that I might know what they’re thinking tends to make people steer clear of me.
I felt a small wave of sympathy for these shifters. “So, how do they make a living?”
Sam paused. “Well, the Analogs have found the perfect niche for themselves back in those hills. They’ve got stills hidden all over the place there, and they make just about the best moonshine you’ll find anywhere.”
“Don’t they have to worry about ‘revenuers’ smashing their stills?” I remembered reading that the government doesn’t tolerate the distillation of untaxed alcohol.
“Can you imagine what it must have been like for revenue agents to come face to face in the wild with an Analog guarding a still?” Sam asked. “That’s the type of thing that legends are built on. Ever heard of the 'Mo-Mo'?"
I answered that I had not.
" 'Mo-Mo' is short for 'Missouri Monster,' the Big Foot of the Ozarks."
"So you're saying that there really is a Big Foot? And that he's an Analog shifter?"
"It's gotta be. So think about it... even if an revenue agent managed to find a still, he’d be too spooked to do anything to it, and who would believe him, anyway? That and the fact that over the years some of the agents who have gone into those hills were never seen again. It was like sending people into a heavily-wooded Bermuda Triangle, so they just gave up on trying to shut the Analogs down.”
The wave of sympathy was about to be downgraded to a ripple. “You mean the Analogs killed them?”
“That would be my guess.” Sam paused and his voice was a little lower now. “Or they were bitten and kept on as a way to deepen what’s got to be a pretty shallow gene pool.”
I was speechless.
“Sookie? Are you still there? Do you see why you need to get out of there any way that you can? You’ve probably already seen too much for them to just let you go. And you might be a POW in the feud between the Heddes and the Bunns.”
“Right. Sure, Sam, I see what you mean.”
“I’m coming to get you, cher. Just give me some landmarks to go by and…”
“Uh, Sam…listen, I’ve used up a lot of my minutes, and my phone is blinking that I’m on ‘roaming.’ Thanks anyway, but I’ve gotta go.”
“Sookie!”
Yes, I hung up on him. Like I told you, I already knew how to get out of there.
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Chapter 12: The Word of the Day is TUMESCENCE
The quality or state of being tumescent; especially: readiness for sexual activity marked especially by vascular congestion of the sex organs.
I wasn’t about to tell Sam that, though. There was no need to get him more involved in this than absolutely necessary. After all, even though he wasn't aware of it, he had already told me how to get out of here.
The knob to the first door (the one that was locked) rattled, and I had just enough time to tuck the phone back into my bra before it swung wide open. The door, silly...not the bra! You know, you really ought to pull your mind out of the gutter and…
Sorry, I take that back. I can’t think of a single good reason why you should listen to me when it comes to that subject, but I would SO appreciate it if you’d snap to it and stay with the program here. No one cares about what happens with me quite the same way you do, and I’d say that you are at least as important to my story as I am. As far as I'm concerned, you and your mind can fuck each other in the gutters if that’s what does it for you, just as long as you pay some mind to me.
Agreed? I’m so glad we had this little talk.
Anyway, the door swung open, and who should walk in but Mister Dick Hedde. Yes, The Prick himself, in all his turgid glory. My headache had been pushed into the background by optimism…I felt this close to getting my hands on some lip gloss…and this good mood of mine was going to make it a lot easier to follow through with my plan. This could even be fun, if you can imagine that…Eric's ‘Bowling for Vampires'-type fun.
But before I put the plan into action, I needed some answers and I wanted them now! Somebody was going to tell me what the hell was going on here.
First off, I had to know: Why me?
Did these analogs just wake up that morning thinking, ‘Hey, Sookie Stackhouse is gonna be passing through here today, so let’s go give her a hard time’? Or was it more like, ‘Our gene pool’s few quarts low on crazy, so let’s toss in a telepathic barmaid’? Or maybe it wasn’t about me at all…maybe they wanted the Malibu and I just got brought along for the ride. Yeah, that’s it…I’d probably been carjacked. But most likely it had something to do with Ms. Bunny and I had gotten in the way. Or, as Sam had warned me, I could be a POW in the feud between the Heddes and the Bunns.
None of these scenarios looked good as far as them just letting me walk out of here.
And what the fuck had they done with my purse?
Not that I’d I phrase it quite like that, mind you, with analog shifters being pretty much the ultimate in literal-mindedness. Wouldn't you suspect that saying “fuck” when you’re cornered by a supe who shifts into a six-foot erect penis might be like throwing gasoline on a fire? There was only one way to put out that kind of fire, and I just didn’t feel all that accommodating right then, certainly not with my lips being so dry and all. This Dick Hedde’s brand of ‘plenty’ was ’way beyond anything I’d call ‘gracious,’ and no-no-no, that sure was NOT the kind of fun I had in mind when I mentioned having a plan.
What's that? You thought .......???
Oh.
Well then, like I said, that’s your business. Far be it from me to tell you what to think. But that gutter must be pretty darned comfy, ’cuz sweetie, you and that head of yours seem to be spending an awful lot of time down there. I'm glad that you find my situation so very…uh...entertaining, and I have to say that I'm not really all that surprised. That's just the way you are.
You shouldn't expect me to look at the situation quite the same way you do. That's just the way I am.
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Chapter 13: The Word of the Day is OBLIGATORY
- Binding in law or conscience.
- Relating to or enforcing an obligation.
- Mandatory; required.
- So commonplace as to be a convention, fashion, or cliché.
Just the way I am.
Sometimes you forget just what I am.
You forget that I know what you’re thinking, that I can rummage around in that mind of yours whenever I want and overhear whatever’s going on there. You forget that when you thought I meant whatever it was you thought I meant, that I can ‘hear’ it like you had said it out loud. Like I said, I don’t really mind that your head seems to be in the gutter half the time and that you tend to interpret what I tell you in the most suggestive light even if I didn’t mean it that way at all. In fact, I have to admit that I prefer that sort of interpretation to having you just not get it, with ‘it’ being how interesting my world has become these last few years. And, for the record, sometimes I actually do mean it the way you’re imagining. Gran raised me to be a lady, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t think for myself and have a life of my own, or a mind of my own. And sometimes your mind, your thoughts, too.
What I guess I’m trying to say is this…a story that no one listens to is like the tree that falls in the forest when there’s no one there to see or hear it happen…it’s just dead wood. Or like the sound of one hand clapping. Every storyteller needs a willing listener, it takes two to make a conspiracy, you can’t clap with just one hand, blah, blah, blah. Totally, absolutely trite, yes, but you get the idea.
You are my co-conspirator, my other hand.
A vampire analog-y would be totally appropriate…some might even say obligatory… right about now, so here we go. A story told without a listener is like a starving vampire…you just know it’s gonna suck. It’s like an analog without someone who can ‘see’ them for what they really are…so unremarkable as to be invisible.
It boils down to this: without you, it’s like none of this ever happened…it would be like I don’t even exist. I am literally nothing without you. Damn it all to hell, I need you, so don’t let me down.
Given that this is Chapter Thirteen, I thought that this would be a good time to talk about these things, to take a little break from the story.
I think that somehow I’ve always known that thirteen was something to be wary of. Even when I was small and too young to know about superstition, when asked to demonstrate how high I could count, I completely ignored the existence of that number. I’d just leave it out, as if there was nothing between twelve and fourteen. They would ask me, “Sookie, what happened to thirteen?” and I would answer that there was no such number. That made them laugh; yeah, everyone thought it was just hilarious back then. But my teacher didn’t think it was so funny when I tried to add and subtract without using the number thirteen. My math grades really sucked until I gave in, when actually Mrs. Bonaire should have given me at least some points for creativity; if you have ever tried to do arithmetic without the same set of numbers everyone else uses, you’d know that the answers can be rather interesting, to say the least. Avoiding thirteen worked against me in another way, too. My eccentric brand of math was just another excuse for Mrs. Bonaire and the other kids to think I was crazy.
I know (hell, everyone knows) that a thirteen story building is still only thirteen stories high, even if the elevator says it has fourteen floors because there’s no button for the thirteenth. Nobody knows better than crazy Sookie that avoiding thirteen doesn’t work, and that’s why I haven’t skipped from the twelfth chapter straight to the fourteenth. Even though I am superstitious enough to buy into the 'unlucky thirteen' thing, I am also practical enough to know that there’s just no getting around it. So here I am, skipping the story during Chapter Thirteen instead of skipping Chapter Thirteen.
I’m pretty sure you would agree that even with a plan, I am…we are… going to need all the luck we can get our hands on when we get back to our story. So, our little discussion has also served as a placeholder...a way to use up thirteen...without letting the bad luck intrude on my (our) encounter with a pretty scary, dangerous-looking prick. If anything bad happens, I want it to happen right here, right now, and not when we're in the thick of things.
“And now,” to quote Paul Harvey (Gran never missed his radio broadcasts), “the rest of the story.”
Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any lip gloss on you, would you?
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Chapter 14: The Word of The Day is CONFLAGRATION
- Fire; especially a large, disastrous fire.
- Conflict, war.
Holy Shepherd of Judea.
Now, my life has been, as I’ve said, pretty ‘interesting’ of late, but this particular situation was one that I had never found myself in before. What if my so-called plan didn't work out...what then? I asked myself, “Sookie, what would Gran do?” Would she want me to make her proud by being polite and lady-like, or would she be willing to settle for being somewhat less proud and tell me to jump right in and demand answers real proactive-like.
While I was standing there rolling this over in my head, Dick Hedde seized the initiative, which in this case was my arm, pulling me in the direction of the nearest rocking chair and shoving me down none too gently to sit in it.
He backed off a few feet or so, put his hands where his hips would have been, and looked me up and down real slowly. This guy, prick…whatever… just had to know how intimidating he looked. I mean, what was the point of all this other than to terrorize me into doing whatever he wanted? Well, I could play that game, too, so I returned the up and down look. He was about six feet tall and then some, so it was a l-o-n-g trip there and back.
Then we went eye-to-eye; he had just one, of course, so it was like trying to stare down the Cyclops, if you know what I mean. I arched one brow and Dick Hedde looked away first…score one for Sookie…then his gaze dropped down to my lap and turned surprisingly thoughtful-looking. I’ll admit to being totally ignorant of what a thoughtful expression would actually look like on a penis. I don’t know if it was even possible for a penis to look (or be) thoughtful. Based on my experience, I’d have to say NO. The blood seems to flow up to the brain or 'up' down lower, but it can’t be in both places at the same time. That’s why coherent thought and a hard-on seldom co-exist, that whole ‘Gracious Plenty-on/brain-off’ thing we talked about. However, if there could be such a thing as ‘a penis with a thoughtful expression,’ I’m pretty sure it would look just like what I was seeing on Dick Hedde's 'face.' He just stood there, looking at me without saying a word, which just creeped the crap out of me. Score tied.
He continued staring at my lap. I wanted to tell him, “Uh-uh, Dickie Boy, we are NOT going there!” but instead I let my shields down to listen to what was happening in his head. All I could latch onto was a knotted-up mess that sounded half like a girl’s worst nightmare, half like Barry White’s deep, sexy baritone voice on a six pack of Viagra…a girl’s wildest dream. Maybe they are one in the same, because this was the scariest and at the same time one of the most incredibly exciting vibes I had ever picked up on in my long career as a telepathic waitress in a red-neck bar, and, I think you’d agree with me, that’s really saying something.
A demanding voice broke the spell.
“What’s your name, Blondie? Huh? Who are you?”
My head whipped around to the open doorway, where a red-headed rat (the very one) stood leaning against the door’s frame, a hand on one hip, the other hand behind his back, his legs crossed at the ankle. Yeah, this rat had ankles and a head of red hair that looked like it came from the Hair Club. I know what you're thinking, but come on! I couldn’t make up stuff like this if I tried.
I answered him with the most belligerent stare I could muster up on short notice.
He pushed away from the doorway and took a step closer to my rocking chair, one hand still behind his back. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, babe. What’s your name?”
I had a hunch that it might not be a good idea to give these two any more information than absolutely necessary. Recalling the name of a cousin that Gran once mentioned she had, I answered, “Chastity…Chastity Hale.”
Rat threw his head back and screamed with laughter. “That’s funny…real funny. Hear that, Dickie?”
Dickie Boy grunted. Rat came a step closer. What was he hiding behind his back? I let down my shields to listen, but it was like wading through sewage. I could almost smell it.
“Like hell.” The rat pronounced it like ‘Hale' (or vice-versa). “There hain’t no Chastity in Analog Hole!” He laughed again, as if he had said something hilarious. “Never been no Chastity, not here. Hoo-boy…never will be, neither, not if I have anything to say about it.”
He ‘harumphed’ and got serious. “This is the last time I’m gonna ask you nice-like. What’s your name, bitch?”
The prick spoke. “Let it go, Rhett.”
Rhett?
Shit. Now they had gone and ruined my favorite movie; I was never going to be able to watch Gone With the Wind again without thinking of these jerks. My Inner Scarlett was fit to be tied, but even she had to admit that the name had a certain logic to it. What else would you name a red-headed rat?
Dick Hedde turned to Rhett. “Where are your manners, cousin? Show some respect." He gestured toward me. "We are in the presence of a celebrity. You should be asking for this lady's autograph, nice and polite. Isn’t that right...Miss Stackhouse?" His voice dropped as he smirked, "So-o-o-o-kie?"
I didn’t have the luxury of more than a second or two to ask myself how they could possibly know my name before the Rat…Rhett…brought his other hand around so I could see what he was holding.
My purse. He had my purse!
I was suddenly very, very aware of how dry my lips felt. I needed that lip gloss right NOW.
Springing out of the rocking chair, I made a grab for it. Rhett pulled the purse back and out of my reach, then shoved me…hard… back into the chair with his other hand.
I gripped the arms of the chair and screamed in frustration, “Stop fucking around! Just give it to me!”
I realized my mistake even as the words were leaving my mouth. Way to go, Sookie…you just had to go and throw gasoline on that fire.
Dick and Rhett looked at each other, then back at me.
“Stop fucking around?" Rhett shot me a scary grin, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Stop?"
Dick stepped closer, grabbed my chin, and pulled my face toward him, forcing me to look him in the eye. His whisper exactly matched the Barry White baritone I had heard in his head.
“Oh, no, Miss Stackhouse...we haven’t even gotten started yet.”
I was SO wrong when I thought my lips couldn’t get any drier than they already were.
***************************************************
Chapter 15: The Word of the Day is PAS DE TROIS
A dance or figure for three performers.
They say that timing is everything, and to that I'd say "AMEN."
As you can imagine, this was NO time for my phone to ring. So, of course, that must be exactly why it rang just then, right? After all, this is me and my luck that we’re talking about here.
And you know what else they say…”Location, location, location.” There it was… my phone…right there, tucked in real nice and cozy with the Girl on the left, if you know what I mean.
Yes, just when I could eavesdrop on the Analogs compiling fiendishly imaginative lists in their minds of all the things they could possibly think to do to me, that's when my phone started to ring and I realized that it had a new ring tone. As a joke, I guess, someone (probably Pam) had changed it to Jace Everett’s Bad Things. It’s not like I needed to be tossing more fuel onto that fire, so the universe, Pam, and Jace just had to pitch in and do it for me.
Dick grinned, closed the distance between us and un-tucked my phone from its place right next to Ms. Left. Okay, it wasn't as smooth as all that. Since I guess he had no way of knowing which Girl the phone was cozied up to, the prick rummaged around a bit and introduced himself to Ms. Right first. Location, location.
I've also heard somewhere that "nature abhors a vacuum," and I know that they weren't talking about my Hoover. It must be true, because just then, all the air seemed to whoosh out of the room and doubt whooshed rightin to replace it. A little bit of mental voo-doo hoo-doo must have sneaked in with it, because right then and there, at that moment in a log cabin in Analog Hole, Missouri, all I could think about was whether or not I could talk Dick into wearing a condom. I even imagined myself offering him one that looked a whole lot like a Hefty Ultra-Flex tall kitchen trash bag. I had to actually slap myself to get that picture out of my head.
Yeah, my life was turning into one big fat cosmic joke, with luck so rotten that I could practically smell it. This sort of thing is precisely why I don’t waste my money buying lottery tickets. Sure, I know that I can’t win if I don’t play, blah, blah, blah, but things look different from where I’m sitting. I figure that if I don’t play, I can’t lose.
This is all sort of theoretical, of course, but I'm pretty sure that the law of averages would tend to support me here. But with “average” just so happening to be yet another word that my stand-up comedy of a life insists on re-defining, maybe I should make time to re-think the whole thing. Scarlett, you can go ahead and put that on your list…right after you help me get my hands on some lip gloss.
Uh…I forget where this train of thought is supposed to be headed. It seems to have just hopped clear off the tracks.
I know what you’re thinking, but before you say it, try putting yourself in my place for a moment. Go ahead, let's see if you can produce some rational thought when you’ve got the world’s largest and scariest-looking prick bobbing for apples on your chest. It's enough to freeze up a girl’s frontal lobes.
Anyway, just because the Girls were all puckered up like they were waiting for a kiss doesn’t necessarily mean that they were cold. Maybe just the opposite, as a matter of fact. Oh, wait....is that snickering I hear coming from that gutter of yours? Uh-huh. So I guess you understand that if I wasn’t so scared out of my mind this could actually have been what Jason (and you maybe?) would call ‘hot.’ I must be as messed up as he is. Maybe more.
I was pretty sure that Jason had never been in this situation. This was a new one for the Stackhouse family. Yes, I was pretty sure that she had never faced this exact same problem, but I couldn’t help but wonder…what Gran would do?
And what would Gran...God rest her soul... THINK about what has become of me? Shepherd of Judea, I didn't know if I was more afraid of that or of what these guys were capable of doing to me.
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Chapter 16: The Word of the Day is TELEPHONY
1. The use or operation of an apparatus for transmission of sounds as electrical signals between widely removed points.
2. Reaching out to touch another with words.
So where were we?
Let’s see now. Dick finally had his hands on my phone and off my Girls. From the look on his ‘face,’ I’d say that he recognized the ring tone and had a pretty decent grasp of the irony.
He glanced at the caller I.D., smiled, and turned to Rhett. “Well, well, cousin, it appears that things are going exactly the way we planned.”
Dick flipped open the phone and gave the caller his best baritone. Skipping the customary pleasantries, he cut right to the chase.
“Ms. Ravenscroft? PamelaRavenscroft? Second-in-command to The Northman?”
If I had a vamp’s super sensitive hearing, I would have been able to listen in to Pam’s end of the conversation. But I don’t, so I couldn’t, and with the Girls all puckered up I was having trouble reading Dick Hedde's head. But I think we can both fill in the blanks for ourselves, don't you?
“I….”
Pam: "...Yada Yada Yada Yada Yada...?"
“No, Ms. Stackhouse can’t speak just now, but I assure you that she is...at the moment...unharmed.”
Pam: "...Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah...?"
“No, it seems that she won’t be meeting you at the Liz Claiborne outlet this evening.”
Pam: "...Yada Blah Yada Blah Yada Blah...?"
“No. Perhaps you should consider calling a taxi.” Dick frowned. “Let’s get down to business. I have a message for you to deliver to Northman…”
Pam: "...Blah Blah Blah...?"
He let out an exasperated sigh. “No, I don’t know if she got tickets for a show.” Dick turned his questioning eye on me; I shook my head ‘no.’ “No tickets,” he told her.
Pam: "...Yada Yada YADA, Yada-da...!!!"
“I’m sorry that you have been inconvenienced.”
“Like hell you are, Dick Hedde,” I said under my breath. I thought that maybe Pam might have picked up on that…her vamp hearing, you know, so I added (with more than just a touch of desperation), “Send lip gloss!”
Pam: "...Yada Yada Yada..."
Dick gave me the evil eye. “Now you listen to me, Ms. Ravenscroft. Since it appears that you won’t be seeing Shoji Tabuchi’s show tonight, you will have plenty of time to deliver a message to Northman. You tell him…”
Pam: "...Blah Blah BLAH blah blah..!"
He sighed, then grimaced. “I realize that you are on vacation, but I really don’t care about that or about your plans.”
Pam: "Hubba Hubba Hubba..."
“No, thank you. You'll give me a raincheck for some other time, perhaps? I am going to be quite busy this evening…planning what I will be doing to Ms. Stackhouse unless Northman calls me on this phone within the hour.”
And then he just hung up. No pleasantries at this end of the conversation, either. No ‘good-bye,’ not even ‘have a nice day.' It was like a hit-and-run, just what you'd expect from a six-foot prick named Dick.
Wham, bam, thank you, Pam.
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Chapter 17: The Word of the Day is PERVERSITY
- Turned away from what is right and good.
- Obstinate in opposing what is right, reasonable or accepted.
- Marked by peevishness or petulance.
- Marked by perversion; perverted.
I’m sure it must have been just a minute or two until the phone rang again, but that's more than enough time to entertain a thousand thoughts. It’s not that my mind wandered all over the place. It was more like an unraveling of a thousand tightly-bound strands of whatever it is that a fiber-optic cable is made up of. Each strand carried an image that just flashed by at the speed of light or a conversation between me and Gran, me and God, me and anyone whose thoughts I’d ever picked up on, and, of course, me and my 'inner Scarlett.'
I won’t bore you with all of them. Many were rather mundane…commonplace…just plain ordinary. But others were more focused and relevant and quite timely. Some did, in fact, come across as quite troubled.
I had to wonder, for instance, just what Dick had done that had led to him shifting into his present form. Could it be something as simple as bad etiquette? Many people would consider his abrupt phone manners extremely rude, but I was thinking it would take more than that to explain what was going on with him. By now, I’d had some time to size him up, but I still didn’t know much more about Analog shifters than what Sam had told me. After years of shifting into this form whenever he behaved like a prick, could it be possible for Dick to shift at his convenience? Perhaps it was nothing more than a bad habit. Maybe he was no worse (or better) than my two Naughty Boys with their pissing contests. Gran would have called this line of thought “uncovering redemptive qualities,” something she considered one of the highest forms of Christian charity. But like I said, I’ve read all of the psychology books at the Bon Temps library, so I was pretty sure that the ‘experts’ would call this concern a symptom of “Stockholm Syndrome.”
Dick was pretty scary looking on several levels, so why else would I begin to look at him differently? I reminded myself of the goings-on in the Malibu…Dick’s movements on top of Bunny…his grunting…her moaning. I mean, a guy doesn’t have to show up on the doorstep with flowers and chocolates to be considered a gentleman, but geez, having sex...real or simulated... with a girl on the back seat of a car, in the presence of a third party, yet…? In my book that hardly qualified him as a ‘nice’ guy.
Yeah…Dick gave every appearance of being shamefully rude, shamelessly crude, the type whose socially unacceptable misbehavior just begged the question, “Have you no shame?” He struck me as being pretty darned vulgar, too, and more than a tad obscene, even depraved. While I was managing to look at Dick pretty objectively and wasn’t all that shocked by these observations, my inner Scarlett felt mighty offended and in no mood for Swedish pancakes, Swedish meatballs or a Swedish massage. Neither one of us was going to be hopping on a plane for Stockholm if she had anything to say about it, even if it meant having to turn down the Nobel Peace Prize.
And Rhett? I had never liked rodents and was certainly no fonder of them after having met this one. He had been inching closer, his teeth chattering against each other in excitement. The closer he got, the more clearly he broadcasted a stream of filthy, smelly, obscene thoughts (worse than anything I had ever picked up from the heads of the rednecks at Merlotte’s), some of which actually managed to escape from his mouth. One of my teachers had called anyone who used ‘dirty’ language a “potty mouth,” and even as that memory moved to the front of my consciousness, I watched Rhett’s mouth morph into something that looked like my American Standard “Champ” commode, with the seat and lid moving up and down as he spoke, like a mouth opening and closing. I tell you, hanging around with these Analog shifters was doing a number on my head. I might as well been under the influence of a hallucinogenic drug.
Just then, Dick reached out and tucked an errant lock of hair behind my ear. Compared to Rhett, this guy was looking more and more like Prince Charming.
“Lovely, irresistible…,” he whispered. Something embarrassingly perverse in me broke out in goosebumps before he added, “…vampire bait.”
With the old-fashioned plumbing at Gran’s house, you don’t dare flush a toilet when someone is in the shower because it messes with the temperature of the water. That’s just what this felt like… Dick flushed and I went from steamy hot to ice cold, just like that. It shocked me right out of my comfort zone in suburban Stockholm more effectively than anything Scarlett could have said or done. I had never been more in need of my lip gloss.
I hoped the phone would ring soon, and just like that, there was the “Bad Things” ring tone again. I hoped it was Eric calling. Scarlett hoped that Eric would kick the you-know-what out of you-know-who. I hoped against hope that ‘they’…the people who say such things…are right that “it’s not how big it is, it’s what you do with it.” If they’re wrong and size is what really counts, then this would no doubt be the first time in his un-dead life that Eric (or, for that matter, Bill) will be left holding the short straw. Now, that’s an image the still-pissed-off part of me was tempted to dwell on for a moment, yet no matter how mad I was at my vamps, I had enough of my Gran in me to hope that I would never stoop to being so cruel as to wish that kind of humiliation on either of them.
Hold onto that hope, because it’s what reminded me that it would soon be time to execute my ‘plan’ for getting out of here on my own. But that would have to wait until after Eric’s call.
Dick fired the first shot in a battle of wits by letting the phone ring for what seemed like a long time. When he finally answered, I let out the breath I hadn’t even been aware I had been holding. It was my Eric.
I listened to Dick’s side of the conversation, trying to pick up even a word or two of what Eric was saying.
“Northman? Miss Stackhouse and I were just talking about you.”
I could hear Eric answering but just couldn’t make out the words.
“I assure you that she is, at the moment, unharmed. She will remain safe as long as you do exactly as I say.”
For a moment, it sounded as though the phone itself was growling.
Dick remained calm. “Your threats mean nothing to me, and for that matter, she means nothing to me. It’s your money that I want. And if you don’t follow my orders exactly, I’ll be giving your precious Sookie a hard time of it…”
The phone hissed like a snake. I knew perfectly well that the sound reflected Eric’s reaction to Dick’s threat, but on another level, I felt Eric hissing at my reaction to Dick’s promise. I know that I can’t possibly be the only woman in the world who goes weak at the knees at the sound of Barry White’s uber-erotic voice. My body wanted to just hum right along with him, but my mind winced and whined, “Oh yuck, Sookie.”
At the very same time, a creature deep inside me was doing some two-fisted beating on the door to my soul, screaming, “No fuck Sookie!”
Now, I know you pay attention to such things, so you must be aware that an itty bit of punctuation will make all the difference in how you read and interpret that exclamation. It clearly calls for a comma…just one…but I’ll just leave it to you to decide where to place it.
Uh-huh. That’s just where I would have guessed you’d stick it. Friend, you are so predictably, delightfully perverse.
********************************************************************
Chapter 18: The Word of the Day is FLACCIDITY
- Not firm or stiff.
- Deficient in turgor.
- Lacking in vigor or force.
As am I.
I took a deep breath. My eyes fluttered closed, I released a sigh and then flirted with cashing in on this incredible opportunity to give in to the perversity within me.
No, no, backup, Sookie...you're making it sound much too tame, and way, way too easy. I mean, where's the drama in just 'giving in'? And these days, my life has been all about drama.
This 'flirtation' I'm talking about actually seemed more like a tug-of-war for my soul, with that two-fisted creature and I going back and forth, yielding and regaining ground in a hand-over-hand struggle to pull the other into the pool of shoe-sucking mud that stretched out between us in my mind. Someone had to break the stalemate, so I reached right across the mud like the proverbial long arm of the law and executed a perversity smack-down, with one fist yet, although I had been fully prepared to deliver a one-two punch with both. It was nothing short of an epic battle, and ya-hoo...I, Crazy Sookie, a mere barmaid from Bon Temps, had triumphed. And since this all took place in my head and heart, Gran was able to be right there cheering me on, doing a happy dance and telling me how proud she was of me one moment, then screaming at me to get myself up and out of that rocking chair and run like hell...okay, heck...the next.
And I intended to do so, just as soon as I took care of some important business.
When I re-opened my eyes, I was alone in the room. I walked over to the door and carefully tried the knob. They had locked me in again, but Dick's mesmerizing baritone in the next room carried well. Ear to the door, I heard him tell Eric where to go, how to get there, and what to bring with him. From what I could gather, Eric and Bill were already enroute from Shreveport to Branson via Anubis Air. After arriving and taking their day rest, an Analog would be picking them up and transporting them to Analog Hole, where they would negotiate my release. It seemed pretty cut-and-dried as such things go, but it appeared that my freedom was going to cost my vamps something. Not wanting to owe them anything, I hoped to get myself out of here without them having to transfer a few thousand dollars to these A-Holers.
I heard footsteps approaching the door. As a key turned in the lock, I hurried back to take a seat before Dick or Rhett could catch me eavesdropping. Slipping back into the chair, I glimpsed out the window and noted that, oddly enough, it was still daylight outside. By my reckoning, I had been here for the better part of the day, so how could the sun still be up? And Eric...how could he be calling if the sun hadn't yet set?
Just then, Bunny entered the room carrying a tray and nudged the door closed behind her.
“Southern fried chicken and southern hospitality for a southern belle,” she said in a unnecessarily loud voice. “You must be real hungry by now, Miss Sookie.”
As she leaned forward to place the tray on my lap, she whispered close to my ear. “I know where they hid your car. If I help you get out of here, will you take me with you?” She looked me straight in the eyes and pleaded, “P-Please???”
The phone call must have ended, because I could hear Dick and Rhett talking to each other as they approached the door. I had to make a snap decision on this.
“Can you get your hands on my purse?”
She shook her head. “Uh-huh, I think so.“ she whispered, then gave me a pathetically hopeful look. “Then I c-can c-come with you?”
I took in her white-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail with a periwinkle blue ribbon. Her bare-backed pale yellow sundress dotted with tiny periwinkle flowers tied at the shoulders and was 'way beyond cute; Scarlett made a note to ask her where she found it. With her well-scrubbed look, this girl needed almost no makeup to set off her features, though I did note that she was wearing lip gloss. Her puffy eyes gave away the fact that she had been crying. I felt pretty sure she would burst into tears again if I turned her down, and I couldn't bear being responsible for making this girl any more miserable than she already was.
“What's your name, honey?”
“Helen B-Bunn, but my friends call me Honey Bunn...sometimes just B-Bunny.”
Gee, I wonder why that would be? I figured that anyone who had seen proof positive that Helen wasn't a natural blonde knew her well enough to call her by her nickname.
“Okay, Bunny, but you've got to do exactly what I tell you or neither one of us is going to out of here.”
She gave me a quick smile and nod. “Sure. What d-do you want me to do?”
I directed her to find my purse while I distracted Dick and Rhett, then place it near the door we'd be exiting from. Then she should position herself near this room's door and wait as I executed my plan to disarm and disable the men so we could make our escape.
A doubtful look clouded over her face. “How're we g-gonna do that?” she asked. “Dick, he d-don't like to be crossed and he's got a lot of m-muscle....”
Well, that just had to be the understatement of the century.
“...and that Rhett, he's no w-weakling, neither. You really gotta w-watch out for those teeth of his after he...” Bunny blushed, frowned and looked down. “...sh-shifts.” She stuttered nervously. “W-We're...uh...sh-sh-shifters.”
Ya think?
“Uh-huh, Bunny, I picked up on that.” I was only partially successful in trying to not let my trademark sarcasm bleed through. By way of apology, I reached over and patted her hand and picked up on something else. It seemed that Bunny and I had a few things in common. She considered her “gift”...the ability to shift...a somewhat useful but embarrassing trait that had caused her more pain than pleasure. And, like me, she had mixed feelings about what seemed to be an on-again-off-again relationship with Dick.
She turned her eyes back back to mine and forced her quivering lips into a watery, tentative little smile.
“Listen, sweetie, here's what I need for you to do...” As I explained my plan, Bunny's eyes and her smile grew wider. She nodded that she understood, then as Dick and Rhett re-entered the room, she slipped out to retrieve my purse.
Dick resumed his position in front of my chair, and Rhett closed the door only part way before turning his attention in my direction. My attention was divided between Dick and the chicken dinner on the tray still balanced on my lap. My stomach seized this opportunity to remind me that I hadn't eaten since lunch by rumbling right out loud enough for everyone to hear.
He gestured toward the tray, as if giving me permission to proceed with the meal while he spoke.
“Well, well, Ms. Stackhouse, it seems that you are quite the belle of the vamp ball. You have two suitors coming to your rescue. As we speak, Northman and William Compton are both on their way.”
Rhett's “teeth”...his potty-mouth seat and lid...stopped chattering just long enough for him to flap out “ Whore!” After some pretty aggressive whisker twitching he hissed, “Vamp whore,” as if someone needed to up the ante.
Turning toward Rhett, Dick frowned. “Mind your manners, cousin,” he said, before he returned his attention to me. “Now,” he said, “let's just hope they think you are worth fifty million.”
Nothing else Dick might have said could have stunned me more. Now I was the one stuttering. “Fif-fifty m-million d-dollars?” I squeaked. “Are you c-crazy?”
The prick leaned toward me. As he traced his fingertips lightly across my cheek, I felt a deep flush move across my face to my neck, and...lower. Damn it all to hell, all of a sudden, the Girls and I were really feeling the surge of heat and humidity in that room.
His voice softened. “No, my dear. They are crazy if they think you are worth even a penny less than that. Whatever they have been paying you for your services, you should be asking for more.” Under the circumstances, I couldn't help but agree that I was due for some sort of raise, but at that moment, I would have settled for dinner and a show in Branson...particularly the dinner.
Rhett chimed in again. “That's a mighty big chunk'a change to be leaving on the nightstand, Dick. Think she takes checks? What's the limit on your Visa?”
Okay, now I was really hot. It was now or never. Time to execute my plan.
“Only fifty million, Dickie-Boy? Where's your imagination, big shot? Why not seventy-five? A hundred? I mean, if you're going all big-headed on us, why stop at fifty? I mean, go ahead and enjoy your mother-huggin' delusions of grandeur, but that's about all you'll be up to...uh...huggin', buddy.”
Dick's mouth dropped open. I had his attention all right.
“What? You think you're so big, right? That's what happens when all the blood goes to your dick, Dick. Your brain gets deprived of oxygen, and pretty soon you're thinking that you're something you're definitely not. Face it, squirt... you're just not up to the job.”
As I spoke, Dick's expression went from confidently inscrutable to puzzled, then kept right on going until it got to slightly horrified. He began to shrink right before my eyes.
“Omigosh, what's wrong, Little Man? You're starting to look like a wool sweater that's been washed in hot water!”
His posture was looking a little stooped.
“Holy Shepherd of Judea, Dick! What's up?” I paused for effect. “Oh, sorry...that was an unfortunate choice of words, wasn't it? What I really meant to say was 'what's going down,' you old softy?”
Poor, poor Dick. I'm pretty sure that this wasn't the type of tongue-lashing he had been expecting. I felt so...so sadistic, but it needed to be done, and quickly....like pulling off a bandaid.
He looked so sad that it wasn't hard for me to look and sound sympathetic. “Aw, don't worry, honey. Girls just l-o-v-e to play with Shrinky Dinks.”
I gingerly patted him on the head, which, with his now slumped over posture, was easier to reach. “I'll just bet you're not the first guy who can't...uh...'rise to the occasion.' Although...I gotta tell you that none of the other men I've known have had this problem.” I gave him a coy little smile. “Perhaps it's just you, hmm?”
By now, he was looking like a strawberry ice cream cone that had been dropped on a hot sidewalk...soft, melted, totally unappetizing, and just, well...flaccid. What a waste. I was about to tell him just that when he moaned and a tiny voice wheezed, “Stop, please...no more.”
As I allowed myself a moment to regret the loss of Dick's toe-curling baritone, Rhett shook off the shock of seeing his partner deflated and wimpering. He turned and directed his attention and a stream of obscene, vulgar insults toward me.
At that moment Bunny stepped in front Mr. Potty Mouth and slammed the seat and lid down onto his porcelain white lower jaw, effectively silencing him.
“There!” she said. “I've been wanting to do that for years!”
I knew exactly how she felt. I mean, men...they never put down the seat!
With that, Bunny grabbed my hand and began to lead me out of the room. “Come on, Miss Sookie. We're gettin' out of this place.”
“And you,” she wagged a finger in front of Rhett's face. “You watch that filthy mouth of yours, Rhett Hedde, or I'm gonna come back and wash it out with Tidy Bowl, like your momma shoulda done years ago!
With that parting shot, Bunny steered me out of the bedroom and toward the front door, where we grabbed my purse before making our exit.
Bunny's stutter had vanished, and she wasn't running like a scared rabbit this time. She looked taller, stronger, more confident, and utterly determined, like an avenging angel. Now entirely Helen, she was sporting a fine pair of white feathered wings and a halo of flaming red hair. She paused for just a second, turned her glowing face and beatific smile toward me, then slipped something small into my left hand before we stepped out into the moonless night.
I didn't have to look down to know that it was a tube of lip gloss.
TBC
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