Parking lot love affair - by CEW

My blade crunched past a rib on its way in. That sound/sensation always puts my teeth on edge, like nails on a chalkboard. Maybe that's why I didn't notice the foetid stench that hung around the guy, didn't notice the bared teeth descending toward my shoulder, didn't notice that nine inches of steel in the chest wasn't going to do much good because the bastard was already dead.

He got the drop on me coming out of Sweet Sue's, all but inebriated after a few rounds with my lovelorn friend Jack. One minute we're drinking to her broken heart, the next minute some asshole tries to roll us in the parking lot. He came up from behind the old Chevy that sits at the edge of the driveway. It's been part of the scenery for probably 30 years, slowly rusting its fenders off, permanently locked onto the steel post of old Sue's billboard. Some vintage drunk didn't even make it out of the parking lot. Cheaper to leave it there than to try to cut it loose or replace the sign.

I heard him at the last second, lurking there at the edge of the light. Those stupid halogens are only effective if you stay right underneath them. Who the hell decided that shit was safe? The boundary of the light is a steep black edge of shadow that's practically impenetrable until you pass beyond it. And there he was, just waiting for a couple of girls to stumble by on their way to a DUI. Well, I'm not that easy to grab, as any redneck shithead from this town could have told him.

So here's another one, I thought, trying to get a piece out of a helpless little drunk-girl. Good thing I don't fuck around or I'd have bought it right there in the first minute because I underestimated him, but in spite of my assumptions I dropped faster than he could grab me, whipped my hand around to the small of my back, and came up hard into his chest with a fistful of serrated metal.

It was pure luck that I heard him and dropped when I did, or those chompers woulda got me for sure. As it was, I nearly died from the smell when I jerked the knife out and opened a hole for the reek of steaming, bloated, summertime death to rush out of. A gush of rancid bile splurted out with the wet noise of an old lady's fart, blew out of the hole and splattered down my arm before I could get out of the way.

Ugh. Unsanitary.

I shouldn't have paused. I should have carried on the momentum and leaped right past him, out of arm's reach, dragging my pigsticker behind me, but when you stab a man like that you expect to see, smell, and feel blood; hot and bright even in the dark. If only subconsciously, you're damned well expecting it. So, when his chest farted slimy rotten gunk, which was cold and not at all red in the light of the halogens, I paused for just a second. Just long enough for him to get a hold of my free arm. Big mistake.

I vaguely noted that Jack was screaming hysterically, "Look at his head! Look at his head! Look at his head! Look at his head!" And Time was good or evil enough to slow down so I could get a leisurely examination in during the space of a mere three heartbeats.

He, or I should really be calling it "It" at this point, raised my arm up toward its broken teeth, and I saw the wild-eyed grin of slavering death approaching, because just over its left ear (where I could unfortunately get a really good look at it from my angle) was a gaping hole. Sharp and jagged, the open bone showed up beautifully in spite of the lighting situation, and I could have prayed for utter darkness because I swear I could see the thing's brain, all chewed and shredded and swollen with maggots and dirt, and little bits of bone and shit that had fallen in there while the thing was walking around looking for a couple of drunk girls to roll in the parking lot. A bit of hysteria was creeping in around my edges as I realized we weren't being rolled, we were about to be eaten.

Shit! Fuck that. Not we. Me! I AM ABOUT TO BE EATEN!

The maggoty shit that I've got swimming around in my own skull finally kicked into gear with that thought and Time, that bastard, immediately resumed its breakneck pace, careening down death's noisome back alley and bouncing off the walls. I got a jumped up hit of pure adrenaline and jerked my arm back into my own control. I yanked the thing off balance, screamed very much like a girl, and rammed that pigsticker right into its eyesocket.

The thing let go of my arm and stood up straight with a violent jerk that took the knife right out of my hand. Somebody yelled "Holy Shit!" from the front of the bar, and I heard a woman scream incoherently from the same general direction. I saw Jack look behind me and then take off at a run. It took about a nanosecond to realize what it must have looked like to the dinks on the porch, and I didn't stick around to argue. I bolted balls-out for my car, following Jack and her infallible instincts for self preservation right the hell outta there.

That's everything that happened. Jack had nothing to do with killing that bastard. I-swear-to-fuckin-gawd! I stuck the fucker in the eye and I'm not sorry. Now let me have my phone call, you donut eating pig. The guy was dead already. He was dead already, and he was walkin around, and he tried to get the jump on me & Jack, and I don't care if you believe me, but you better think about it. You'd better think about it and think about what you're going to do if he's not the only one.

What the hell are you going to do if he's not the only one?